Adieu
by Crimson Bttrfly
Summary: Chapter 15: Spike and Vicious find themselves in trouble when they go undercover at a racetrack. PreBebop.
1. Prologue

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Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop or the characters from Cowboy Bebop.

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**Adieu**

_**Prologue**_

"I didn't think they'd_ actually_ shoot back at us!"

Spike. Vicious wasn't quite sure what to make of his new partner. . . He was either incredibly brilliant or insanely stupid. Either way, there was one thing he knew for sure – Spike Spiegel was a liability, and Vicious didn't like shooting with a liability at his back.

"What did you think they would do?" he asked, calmly taking a drag off his cigarette.

Spike lifted a brow and cocked his head in response. Vicious. How appropriate. How odd . . . Who names their kid "Vicious" anyway? No one. No one names their baby "Vicious", that's who. Just like no one names their kid Spike. They were syndicate names – code names of sorts. Long forgotten were their names of old – that is if they were ever known in the first place. People who join a syndicate don't come from nice happy families – families that love them and have the means to take care of them. Nice, happy, love and care – these words were alien in their world. The things that could be loved were precisely that, things, objects that could be acquired through money. Nice was getting out of a shootout alive. Happiness could be found at the bottom of a bottle. And care? Well, caring was the thing that occurred at the exact moment when something like a weapons malfunction happened at the wrong time, and even then. . . who joins a syndicate and doesn't have a death wish?

- - - -

Mao Yenrai, the man had to have made a grievous error in arranging the partnership between Spike and Vicious. . . or so Vicious thought as he slowly turned the glass of scotch sitting in front of him. His gaze was downcast into the liquid, watching it slosh against each side of the glass. He carried a kind of rare disdain toward his fellow compatriot, Spike. Rare, as in he neither felt the need or had the energy to kill the guy, yet his reckless embodiment of everything one does wrong while in battle managed to earn him accolades back at HQ. It was paradoxical really. All of his needless movement and hand-to-hand combat made his moves inefficient by Vicious' standards, who liked his kills quick and usually done with one strike. Spike, on the other hand, jumped around with the sense and speed of a flea. One might have assumed the difference in style and attitude apparent between the two must have stemmed from their respective ages. Vicious being too old for his partner, thus explaining his bitter indifference…if indifference could ever be bitter. But, surprisingly the two were the same…age-wise.

Spike and Lin sat in the booth across from Vicious, who looked miserable as always, staring into his glass, refusing to acknowledge their presences from across the table. He was odd… That was all there was to it, or so Spike thought, or rather didn't give much thought to. He didn't have any great fondness for his partner. Personally, he found the guy condescending and arrogant, however he respected Mao's decision and figured that there had to be some reason the two were together.

"We have a mark tonight, ya know," Spike muttered more so to himself than his partner.

_How could I have forgotten?_ Vicious thought bitterly before lifting his gaze to Spike. "I recall as much."

"It'll be easy. I give it five minutes tops."

"Five?" Vicious remarked curtly. "That's a little presumptuous."

Spike lifted a brow. Half of him was ready to lash into Vicious, the other took delight at the prospect of a challenge. "You want to make a bet on it then?"

A slight hint of expression lit Vicious' icy eyes. "Is that a challenge?"

"Damn right it's a challenge!"

Lin's eyes darted back and forth between the two. He was unsure of what the hell had just taken place, but he didn't think it was going to end well. It was just one of those feelings– the kind where everyone involved dies or barely makes it out alive. "Um," he tried to cut in.

"Alright. Tonight. Whoever manages to infiltrate Gio Galli's flat and kills him first wins."

"Deal!" Spike spat before gulping down the last of his vodka and tonic.

Before Lin could wager an objection, both pairs of eyes were set on him announcing that he was to be the unspoken umpire of the whole charade. His small whimper of dissatisfaction was stifled by their hardened stares. All he could do was respond with bowed head and a sigh of defeat.

- - - -

The Martian downtown district in all of its sleazy filth, shady deals, corrupt cops and whores which littered the street, there was a little oasis on the north side of town. Of course there was some weird symbolism of the wealthy part being in the north – what was good was up, what was bad was down. If only the rest of the universe was so neatly laid out in black and white.

The little oasis had a name, too. It was something French – oh yes, the Champs-Élysées which was probably named after either the place of the blessed in Greek mythos or the posh side of Paris back when Earth was actually. . . _livable_. The latter influence was most likely, considering a place like Mars is more content on the superficiality of things.

The Champs-Élysées had its share of whores, pimps and shady deals. The difference? It was all done with money. Lots and lots of woolongs to be precise. This place was a hotspot for top syndicate activity as well – the passive kind. It was the place where the syndicate heads called home after a "hard" day at work.

Gio Galli was a crook on top of being a White Shark tax lawyer. He took up space in Hotel Tassigny on the strip, just outside of the Champs. Where the "vulgar" streets of Mars were littered with neon plasma colored lights and weathering buildings that had seen better days – the Champs-Élysées was free from all of that filth. It was clean and white, giving an illusion of decadent purity. But purity could never be decadent, and the Champs was just an idealized illusion created for and by the wealth of Mars. The strip, on the other hand, was close enough to Mars' little oasis to retain some class, but it was used more as a buffer to keep the rift-raft at bay. Galli lived here, in one of the finest hotels.

Spike lit a crinkled cigarette and braced his back against a brick wall. Galli was a snake. Before joining the Sharks, he had enjoyed a nice career as a Dragons' accountant and legal aid. He was good at what he did, but he let the power get to his head until one day he went "missing". No one ever goes _missing_ unless they've just been done in by their own syndicate. But nevertheless, he was gone. The Red Dragons realized they had a problem when after three days he never showed back up for work. It had taken them a week to finally locate his whereabouts, and surprise, surprise he had tried to sell them down the river to a rival gang for a cash load of woolongs and nice comfy gig. One wouldn't ordinarily think that an accountant or legal aid has that much power. . . but when one knows what assets a certain group is spending their money and time on, this can give a man the power to choose his own fate . . . whether or not to be bought out to give the opponents a _slight_ advantage.

Spike assumed that the Sharks didn't trust the guy as far as they could throw him, but he had words to share about the Dragons – words that were particularly useful. Spike figured they'd drag Galli on for as long as they needed him before revealing his location so the Dragons could flesh him out and kill him. He, like everyone else, was expendable. He just happened to make the fatal error in thinking he was _different – _clever even. _He was wrong _. . .

Spike inhaled deeply off his cigarette before letting the butt drop to the ground. There was nothing more refreshing than inhaling a breath full of cancer causing agents before beginning a job. And mind you, even though Galli was an obvious sacrificial lamb, the mark wasn't going to be _that_ easy. In order to get Galli to join their side, the Sharks had to have offered him some security to get him to betray his order. And, if the Sharks were smart, even when they lifted the veil to let the Dragons come claim the man, they wouldn't give him up without some sort of fight, to make sure the rival gang incurred as much of a loss as possible. This was all coupled with the fact that Hotel Tassigny was owned by the Sharks, and Spike was sure that hiding behind every corner was one of their lackeys.


	2. Passive

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Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop or the characters from Cowboy Bebop.

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**Passive**

_"Dead as dead can be  
The doctor tells me  
But I just can't believe him  
Ever the optimistic one  
I'm sure of your ability  
To become my perfect enemy"_

– A Perfect Circle

Spike couldn't believe it. '_I was setup,'_ the voice in his head kept repeating in a never-ending loop. He leaned back into the leather chair he was seated in and closed his eyes, reflecting on the past night.

He had faired well enough at first, managing to get access to Galli's room. This was the first red flag. It was _too easy_, and then there was his "partner" . . . or lack of partner. Vicious' absence was sourly noted by Spike. A man doesn't get the name "Vicious" by being late or careless. Spike wasn't naive, yet he wasn't prepared for what happened. When he got to the apartment – the memory in his head played like a movie. He could see it happening frame by frame.

Galli was already dead by the time he had gotten there. The man's stocky frame was laid out face down on the bed. Spike remembered his blood run cold when he saw it. Another thing stuck out in his head – the lack of blood. The hit had been clean. So clean that the man could've been mistaken for being asleep. But he wasn't. Spike knew this; he could _feel_ it. The man was too limp, and his body positioning was too unnatural for a sleeper, unless he was a contortionist. It was about this time he realized that he had been set up. But how? How could his partner have known? How could he have managed to infiltrate the hotel and kill the man without the inevitable chaos? _How did he kill the man_? The latter was probably the most bothersome question plaguing Spike.

He tightened his lids, conjuring up the mental photograph of the dead Galli. He was not shot and his neck did not appear to be broken. Although, he very well could've suffered a broken neck or asphyxiation since Spike didn't walk over and _personally_ check the man. But, it didn't seem to be that at all. In fact, the only unusual thing he could recall was that Galli had no shirt on, and there were thin lacerations on his back. But surely, lashes to the back could not kill a man. . .

Spike was quickly drawn from his contemplation when the clicking of a doorknob caught his attention. It was Yen. Yen was a surly man who looked like he belonged at an accounting firm rather than a syndicate, but so did the rest of the higher-ups.

"What the hell happened to you?" It sounded more like an accusation than a question the way Yen put it.

"I'm still trying to figure that one out." It wasn't what the man wanted to hear, but it was the truth.

"Weren't you supposed to have a partner on this one?"

Spike had to repress a chuckle. _'Vicious?'_ He really didn't think the whole "bet" spiel was going to earn him any syndicate brownie points.

"And there was no mention of you two actually _raiding_ Hotel Tassigny. If we had wanted a raid, we would have assigned a team," he reminded Spike pointedly.

Again, Spike didn't think the real reason was going to cut it, and Yen looked a second away from blowing a gasket. Spike responded with silence as he folded his arms against his chest. He had to fight the itching he had for a cigarette since this interrogation shit was boring as hell.

"Galli _is_ dead," Spike finally offered, feeling Yen's animosity strengthen each passing moment he didn't answer. Yen gave a throaty chuckle -- one of those forced, creepy chuckles that one uses only to suppress aggression. Spike thought he might have employed the throaty chuckle on occasion, which seemed to be growing more and more frequently, as he thought about it.

"_Yes_, Galli _is_ dead," Yen growled.

"And how did he die, again? I wasn't too sure so I figured I'd ask."

Yen's eyes seemed to widen an inch upon hearing Spike's question. The expression quickly melted as he shook his head and placed a hand to the back of his neck. At least Spike had broken the tension between the two.

"I think the Sharks are still trying to piece together that one," he sighed. "You know, whatever the two of you were trying to do . . . you sure the hell made a mess."

Spike placed a firm hand to his left shoulder, which was covered by a bloody bandage. Spike had managed to get the hell out of dodge within an inch of his life. The Sharks had done a real bang up number on him.

"Not that," Yen said brushing aside the wound that Spike had suffered as if it were expected. "We have a real problem on our hands now. The job was supposed to be clean, and delicate. But now. . ." He paused. It wasn't like Spike needed to be told that the Dragons and Sharks were on the verge of a gang war. He had assumed as much, and perhaps this too was part of his _partner's_ plan.

'_Vicious_,' Spike thought to himself, somewhat amused.

"Don't think that you or your partner are getting off easy," Yen stated deadpan.

"Speaking of Vicious . . ."

"He's with Mao." A wicked smile lengthened Yen's lips from ear-to-ear. "But you've gotten your punishment," he said finally acknowledging Spike's wounds. "You're dismissed."

- - -

"So are we splitting the two up?" Yen glanced over at Mao as the two began through the sterile white corridors. "I'd sure like to lay into that Vicious kid," he mused.

Mao gave a laugh. "No. Those two. . ." he began to trail off. "They'll never look to work with anyone if we reassign them. Learned behavior. And, I'd like to nip this in the bud before it gets too out of hand."

"They'll kill each other."

"Well, maybe not kill each other. . . but they may sure as hell try which is all right. They'll get it out of their systems."

"Doesn't it bother you? What happened with Galli?"

Mao glanced over at Yen inquisitively. "Oh, you mean his death? Or the botched mission?"

"Both. But more of the former."

"Interesting, wouldn't you say?"

"Any word on _how_ he died?"

"Poison," Mao stated flatly. "Apparently he was a man who liked his women a little too. . . _much. _The whip used to lacerate his skin was laced with a potent toxin. Quite a violent and slow acting death, really."

"Vicious," Yen muttered.


	3. Let Go

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Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop or the characters from Cowboy Bebop.

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**Let Go**

"_Drink up, baby, down  
Are you in or are you out?  
Leave your things behind  
'Cause it's all going off without you  
Excuse me, too busy, you're writing your tragedy  
These mishaps  
You bubble-wrap  
When you've no idea what you're like . . ."_

– Frou Frou

'_Vicious . . . '_

Julia sat in front of the window of her little Venus apartment. The old saying struck her as odd. "If men are from Mars than women are from Venus." In the middle of her hazy thoughts, she found the maxim appropriate. Venus, the Goddess of Love, and Mars, the God of War, were perfect examples of men and women. Even though she had met him on Venus, she was sure he was from Mars.

'_Vicious,_' the thought kept popping back into her head as her finger gently traced an infinity sign on the window pane.

He had called her two days ago, but she hadn't returned the favor. It seemed so weird – yet so expected. Julia didn't want to admit it, but she had been waiting for that phone call for close to three years. Ever since he left for Titan . . . but all of that felt so long ago -- like it had happened in another lifetime.

Unable to focus on the decision now facing her – to call or not to call – Julia's thoughts reverted back to the beginning of _their_ situation.

- - -

He had been a quiet baby. She had been loud and wanting. He had been in constant trouble since he could walk, and she . . . she played quietly in the corner. He was cold as ice and she was warm and alive. Perhaps in some odd cosmic way they canceled each other out. One had all of the appearance of goodness, and the other all the appearance of badness. The nuns at the orphanage weren't sure where either came from, but if they had to wager a guess, Vicious was from Hell and Julia was just left there – in that Home. Therefore, it was odd when the two children displayed some fondness for the other.

At first, the head Mother of the orphanage, Joanne D'arc, thought it was some sort of devilish trick on his part, and she couldn't account for when this strange little "relationship" began. It seemed innocent enough, but he _was_ the Devil's spawn, in her mind, so there _had _to be something more. Besides they were too young, he at twelve and she at ten, to be interested in anything sexual. At ten most of the boys were more irritating than amusing to the girls, whose interaction with them included teasing, mocking or using them only when they needed something. Moreover, since the most interaction Vicious received was during scuffles with other male children or when he was being chastised by his elders, she was at a loss.

However, Julia wasn't. She remembered all too well how she _met_ Vicious. It had been late one night. She had always been a bad sleeper, and one of her roommates, Carrie, had some kind of breathing disorder. The nuns came in every night like clockwork to treat the girl's illness. Afterward, Carrie wheezed, hissed, and gagged the rest of night. Julia would get four good hours of rest, and the remaining sleep was off and on.

It was one night, when she was feeling particularly daring and bored that she decided to creep out of the room. Julia was certain that it was late enough to ensure that the nuns were in bed, or she wouldn't have done something, at her age, considered so bold.

She had managed to crawl out of her bed and slink through the room like a cat. She held her breath until she had successfully closed the door behind her. Once faced with the darkened and now seemingly ominous hallway, she looked around in wide-eyed wonder. Half of her was ready and willing to explore the quiet Home, the other half was wondering what had prompted her to do this and that she should return to bed immediately. Julia went with the former, and tiptoed down the black corridor and out to the large kitchen. Her bare feet stuck to the cold tile, and she paused in hesitation. She quickly took a few more steps forward until she thought she heard a stirring a few feet away. She took cover in the shadows and peered out to find nothing.

Composing herself and her nerves, Julia began out of the kitchen when she noticed The Room's door ajar. The Room was infamous in the orphanage – it was where they put kids for punishment. The children would avoid that entire section of The Home if they knew someone was taken in there. No one wanted to hear the commotion that was sure to ensue.

Julia never had to see the inside of that room, but as she eyed the door, she wondered if all the rumors were true. The kids had told stories of the various _devices_ stored inside. However, since none of the children that had actually been in the room would swallow their humiliation and tell, no one knew. They did know, however, that the adults would go into the room with paint and brushes . . .

The door looked awfully inviting as Julia took a few steps forward. Before she had made up her mind, she was already there. Her big blue eyes peered inside to meet eyes that would freeze her blood cold. He looked like a wounded beast, slumped in a pile on the hardwood floor. His eyes glistened as the moonlight from a nearby window struck them, giving them a menacing glow.

Julia would have stepped back, but curiosity had trapped her. In the veil of nightfall, she could not tell whom it was laying there like a shot dog. A wave of pity had clenched her stomach, and she entered, slowly, into the room.

When she finally reached his position on the floor, Julia bent down to examine him. She wasn't certain what to say, or if saying anything was appropriate at the time. But. as she glanced into his face, it instantly registered. And, for the third time that night she felt panic churn in her stomach. It was Vicious.

Julia would have reeled back if he hadn't been watching her – methodically, meticulously, looking her over. For a moment, she felt that she had crawled into a snake's den just to make sure it was all right. Yet, her anxiety lessened with each passing minute he didn't do or say anything.

Once Vicious was done staring her down, Julia felt free enough to see his damage. His shirt had been taken off and was discarded in a pile in the corner. Realizing this, she turned her gaze to his back. It was slashed open in four places. The lacerations were long and deep and appeared to be bleeding. Julia felt a shiver sting its way down her spine when she thought about how calm Vicious was when she discovered him. '_How could anybody look so blank after being beaten like this?' _she wondered to herself. _'Perhaps he's just used to it?'_

As she examined him further, she noticed something odd and metallic wrapped around his torso. The thing looked like some sort of inverted choker – or one of those pincher collars that Julia saw dog owners use when leash training their puppies. Instantly her thin fingers nimbly fought against the cold metal until she found the release and tore it off him. The device clanked against the floor, revealing tiny bloody pinpricks. Vicious made a soft sigh of relief, feeling himself free of the instrument, and picked himself off the ground long enough for her to slide the chain from underneath him.

Julia glanced back to see if his expression had changed. Vicious still looked impassive, but had become pallor. "Are you okay?" she asked, cringing at the question. _'Of course he doesn't feel okay, Julie! Stupid!'_ His brows fell in response, echoing her thoughts.

"Let me get something to clean. . ." She barely got the sentence out when she was halfway across the room. The only thing that halted her was the sound of his voice.

"Julie, is it?"

She glanced back and nodded before returning to the kitchen. She knew where they kept the first aid kit and drug it back into The Room. Once she had laid it down and opened the box, she returned to her "patient" who looked like he was making a conscious effort to keep from passing out.

It was hard reading the labels in the dark, but somehow she managed. She poured some peroxide on a wipe and pressed it lightly against his back. He tensed in response, but slowly began to relax as she cleaned each sore. But what was she going to use to cover the wounds? Band-aides sure weren't going to cut it, she thought to herself. The only other option was the wraps, provided he would cooperate with her.

"Will you get up?" she asked sweetly. Vicious looked at her as if he thought she were joking. "Please?"

He furrowed his brow in response but did as requested. Shakily, he sat up, and braced himself against the nearby wall. Julia looked over the front of him. His stomach was covered in the prick marks. She quickly wiped them over before loosely wrapping him from the chest down. Vicious watched her every movement, which only added to Julia's apprehension.

After she was done she looked her work over. It was horrible -- she remembered thinking to herself. The wraps were crooked, and misshapen, but they seemed to get the job done.

"What _did_ you _do_?" Julia found herself asking as she looked him in the eye.

He looked worn and tiered, and he seemed to be getting paler by the moment. His pasty complexion only helped to enhance the large grey circles around his eyes. Julia also noticed beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. Vicious looked ill.

At first, she thought he was going to ignore her question until she noticed him struggling to speak. "I tried to leave," he answered in a throaty voice.

"Don't do that again," she answered in fear. Julia had never seen someone look so bad. She felt her heart hammering against her chest just watching him. She didn't want to see anyone _die_. And if anyone looked as if they might drop dead right in front of her, it would have been this pale little boy.

"Can you leave?" she asked.

He struggled to look over at her. She imagined he wanted her to just let him be, but if that was what was going through his head, Vicious made no sign of it. "Hugh?"

"Are you supposed to stay down here _all night_?"

"I dunno. They just left."

"Well, do ya think you can leave?"

"I don't know if I _can,_" he replied breathlessly.

"Well. . ." there was a long pause, "what do we do?"

Vicious braced his head against the wall; his chest rising and falling raggedly. Julia scooted over beside him. Placing her back against the cold wall, she hunched over and wrapped her arms around her legs. She was scared. She shouldn't have left her room.

"Are you going to leave?" he asked, sounding for the first time like he was in pain.

Julia glanced over at him. His eyes were closed and his mouth was sloped down in a frown. She was unsure of what to make of his question. Did he want her to leave? Or didn't he?

"I won't leave. Not unless you want me to." He made no sign either way. It seemed to be her choice, but Julia took his silence as confirmation that he had wanted her to stay.

Julia didn't sleep a wink that night. Instead, she was left to survey the Spartan little room with the streaks of blood lining the wall. She stayed focused on that – the blood. To her it seemed so odd – so barbaric. Finally, part of her understood why he looked so blank when she walked in. He didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing that what they did affected him. Julia was glad for some strange reason that he didn't give those monsters satisfaction. If she had ever been a religious girl, then that would've been the day she stopped believing in God, and started feeling that this was all just one bad nightmare – in that little room.

She couldn't remember if the nuns or the priest found them the next morning. She assumed it didn't make a difference either way. She just remembered being yanked up by her arm, and when she stole a glance over at him, he looked . . . lifeless. Vicious was limp when they tried to pull him up. He just tipped over – just like she thought a dead person would do. When she saw him hit the floor, she recalled wrenching and collapsing on the ground. She screamed when her eyes found him again. _'Is he dead? Is he dead?' w_ere the only thoughts filling her mind.

The person holding her had let go when she had fallen to the floor, so they could inspect the boy. Joanne D'arc knelt down to check Vicious' pulse. "We need to call the doctor," she sighed.

Julia continued to sob uncontrollably for she just knew he was dead. She had been sitting next to a corpse that night. "Don't bother with the girl, and come help me get this kid into bed," were the last words Julia remembered hearing before she passed out.

It seemed from then on Vicious and Julia were synonymous. Perhaps they weren't glued to the hip, but it wasn't hard finding one if you could find the other. Joanne D'arc made sure to keep a close eye on the two. Often times informing Julia that _good girls _don't hang around with guys like _that_.

Julia never understood the insinuation. She didn't consider herself "good" and the word "that" wasn't very descriptive. But, she wasn't stupid. She later realized when she was in her early teens that Vicious wasn't exactly the type of boy you brought home to mom, if one had a mom that is. However, she never thought of him as a boyfriend.

In the beginning, they rarely spoke, yet there was an unspoken understanding between them. If one got into trouble, the other would help in his or her own way. Julia wasn't going to take on any of Vicious' battles, and most of them he didn't need any help, but if he got cut up from the adults, she would help him in private. If Julia was picked on by some older kid, Vicious would take care of it. She wasn't sure if he particularly cared about her at first. Perhaps she was just some debt to pay off, or worse, some dirty little secret.

Once Julia went to highschool, she realized for the first time just how _different_ she was – how different all of the kids from the orphanage were. She had begun to notice the effects in the lower classes, but now it seemed so clear. The kids from the Home were treated as if they were "broken" or had some kind of defect. Many of the kids internalized the stress, but most acted out in their different ways. Julia built up walls, and hid behind an aloof exterior. Vicious did the same, but he never backed down from a fight. However, Julia found that when she was with him, the less he fought and the less unwanted attention she received. If in middle school through junior high the two watched each other from a distance, than in highschool they were rarely an arm's length apart. They became like family. All of the kids that went to school from the orphanage were like family, which only added to their outsider's status. Often the kids mistook Julia for Vicious' girlfriend, but that could have been further from the truth, to her. There was nothing remotely sexual about their relationship. He was like a big brother to her; she could trust him yet she could also candidly tell him when he was behaving like an idiot.

But that all came to an end when she was sixteen. There was something off about him, she realized. He had already left the home and school, and when he did, it felt at first like he had left her behind as well. It had been three weeks before she saw hide or hair of him. She was sure he had gotten himself killed. Halfway on her way to school he had popped up, and told her to cut class. Julia had been skeptical.

"What's wrong?" had been the first words out of her mouth when she saw him, but she did as he wished. The two walked into some random diner. Julia was unsure if she had ever known where they had gone, she was in such a haze. He had mentioned something about "The Red Dragons". The words had sounded so alien to her, and she felt they needed repeated once they were seated at the bar – the empty bar.

"The Red Dragons? That sounds like . . . Oh, please, say you haven't joined some kind of gang!" she whimpered. "You'll be killed!" Vicious made no reply. "But you weren't asking for my opinion. You were stating a fact. Weren't you?"

"I'm going to Titan," he finally stated.

"What?" she gagged.

"And then I'm going to Mars."

"You do realize that there's a _war_ going on right now on Titan?"

Vicious glanced over at her unaffected by the information. He knew, and that was the point.

"When are you going?"

"Tomorrow."

"How long have you known? How long have you had the draft notice?"

He didn't respond. He just looked straight at her. "I want you to come to Mars with me. . ."

"But I'm only sixteen!"

". . . when I'm _done_."

She couldn't think. "I don't understand," she said more so to herself than to him.

"It's your decision."

Her wide blue eyes stared blankly at him. She didn't know where to begin.

"I'll call you when I'm ready. You can choose then," he amended. Julia just sat there with her mouth agape. She heard his words, yet it was what wasn't said that worried her. Somehow, she knew if she picked him, there was no turning back . . . and that's what scared her.

"What time are you leaving?"

The rest of the day felt like a void – like one black dream. It wasn't until the next day that Julia began to function again. She had managed to escape the Home long enough to hitch a ride from a friend to the spaceport. He was there at the gate specified when she found him.

All she could remember was running up to him. His shuttle had been called when she made it to him. She glanced up into his face – impassive as always. She had so much to say – most of which were barbs at what he was doing. But, she realized that he wasn't the type to listen to good advice, and she wasn't the type to shed tears over someone so stupid. Instead, she took his hand, and pressed something against his palm. His eyes never left hers.

"You're . . ." she wanted to complete that sentence with some explicative, but all she did was throw her arms around him in an embrace. In the background, she could hear them calling his shuttle again, but he didn't flinch from under her. Julia was unsure if the two had ever been so close . . . and if he would move if she held on. She didn't expect him to return the hug, and part of her knew he couldn't. Doing so would only admit that there was a chance he might not make it back, and admitting any such doubt existed would mean certain death.

Realizing that he would miss his shuttle if she kept on, Julia let go and pulled herself together. She turned her head so he couldn't see her see him looking at her the way she imagined he would be.

"Be careful," was the only warning she managed to rasp out before turning her back on him and walking away.

The gift she had given him? It was the only relic she had of her family – her real family – an old music box. She considered him as much of a family that she would ever know so it seemed appropriate. It was also the only thing of value she had to give him at the last minute.

- - -

Finally making her decision, Julia glanced over at the phone resting on her nightstand...


	4. Exploder

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**

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop or the characters from Cowboy Bebop.

* * *

**Exploder**

"_. . .There was a man who had a face  
That looked a lot like me  
I saw him in the mirror and  
I fought him in the street  
And when he turned away  
I shot him in the head  
Then I came to realize  
I had killed myself . . ." _

– Audioslave

Vicious was amused, and Vicious was _rarely_ amused. Spike had managed to escape, and Spike wasn't _suppose _to have escaped. Spike was _suppose_ to have died. And, Vicious was amused – amused by the fact that his plan had failed and Spike was indeed very much alive . . . and probably _very_ pissed.

Vicious lingered on the possibilities for a moment. All of the possible ways Spike could turn on him – to seek retribution. Oddly, Vicious found himself delighted by the prospect of having to watch his back – not because of the "tiff" between the Sharks and Dragons, but because of Spike. Perhaps the intrigue of not knowing if his partner would turn his fire on him in the heat of battle only added to the excitement.

The kid had something about him -- Vicious had to admit. Discounting the fact that Spike annoyed him to the nth degree, and despite the fact that most of his moves were long on flamboyance and short on efficient, Vicious saw something of himself in Spike. But, Vicious resigned himself to believing that Spike was not only a liability, but also competition – an opponent who would likely win when push came to shove in the syndicate world. Spike had one thing that Vicious didn't. Spike had a father who once held ranks in the Dragons, and he was seen as their "prince" of sorts – their golden boy. Vicious fixated on this thought, and smiled to himself. If Spike was going to die, it was going to have to be by his hands. He had seen enough of Spike's moves to get the jest of what the kid was about. Spike, however, wouldn't know what hit him . . .

All Vicious had to do now was sit and wait for the sign.

- - -

It had been earlier that day when Mao Yenrai called Spike and Vicious into his office for a "talk". Both had been "talked" to enough about their previous conduct, but never together. The "partners" hadn't seen each other in three days, and Mao thought they had been given sufficient time apart.

"I won't waste your time on the subject of the Galli hit," he greeted as they each took a seat. "That has been exhausted already."

Spike sat slumped in a chair on the far left; his legs sprawled out carelessly. Vicious took a seat in the right corner, sitting with perfect posture. Mao noted the differences between the two: One was dressed in a suit; the other in a vintage bomber jacket, white shirt and jeans; one was light; the other dark; one was careful; the other carefree. The list could have gone on and on _and _on. Mao shook his head as a grin played on his face. '_Every action has an opposite but equal reaction,'_ he mused to himself.

The men he worked with had been quick to criticize his decision to pair Spike with Vicious. _"They're too different." "They'll kill each other." "They're bad for business."_ Even the Elders had aired their opinion on the side of caution when they told him that both were too dominating to be partnered with someone who wasn't compromising. The bottom line: chaos would ensue. They had been right, but Mao was no fool. He realized that each warning had merit, but the starting costs were little compared to what he had in mind . . .

Unless some unforeseen trauma occurred, both Spike and Vicious were going to be permanent fixtures at the syndicate. Mao had seen enough men come and go to know what kind of man stuck around, and those two would definitely stay. Both were territorial, blood-thirsty, ambitious and had more luck than the Lady herself. However, now was the time that they either learn to work together or annihilate each other; otherwise, if the problem was not addressed while both were at the bottom ranks, they would wind up powerful enemies with men behind them. Eventually, they would form factions, which would rip the syndicate apart. If the two made good with the other now, then their leadership would be beneficial to the clan. Although, if they didn't while there were still men in higher positions to reel _one_ back, well, that's why there was an heir and a spare.

"I'm sure you are wondering why I brought you here today. I wanted to _personally_ inform you of your _new assignment _. . ."

- - -

Vicious blinked. Both were sitting in a beaten down Honda outside of some rundown bar. Spike had sent an underling in to check the place out and come back. The kid had been in there for close to fifteen minutes. He wasn't coming back out.

Spike's eyes flicked over to his partner. Vicious had supposedly made the preparations. It didn't bother him much. Vicious was just as good as dead anyway. If he could manage to make his partner's death look accidental enough, he was of the mind to do it that day. _'Accidental, hugh? I think I handle "accidental".'_ Although, he suspected his name didn't make an appearance on Vicious' top 10, either. This was of little consequence to Spike since he relied mostly on instincts. He knew enough to get the hell out of the way when the bullets went flying. He didn't need a strategy guide for _that. _

Vicious was _different_. He paid attention to each detail, taking blueprints, plans, and anything else he could get his hands on to assist him in preparation for any assignment. He was meticulous and calculating. People behaved according to their set personality traits and once he found their control, he could alter himself around them. He could mold his attacks to what needed to be done given a set of variables. And, he always – _always _– made sure there was a contingency plan. Complacency in these matters was unacceptable.

"I think our engraved invitation got lost in the mail. So are you ready?" Spike glanced over at Vicious, who responded by checking his watch.

"Are you not going to set a time for this one as well?"

Spike narrowed his eyes. '_Yep. I can definitely handle accidental . . . even if it kills me.' _

"Let's go." It was Vicious who was the first to fling open his car door.

The two stepped out into the hot Martian atmosphere. Spike remembered the stale smell lingering on the breeze as he thrust open the glass door to the bar. He always liked to take a deep breath before walking into a job since it could always be his last . . .

The moment Spike walked in, his temple was met with the cold feel of metal. "Hey, Jamie," his voice sounded surprisingly friendly. "I sent you in here fifteen minutes ago," he continued. "What happened?"

The kid looked scared to high heaven with his hand trembling and his finger against the trigger of the gun. "It's them," he informed. The information seemed a little redundant at the time, since every person in the bar was standing with guns aimed.

Spike glanced over at Vicious and lifted a brow. "You have a _plan_ for _this_?"

Vicious' eyes narrowed in response.

"Well?" Spike asked, redirecting his attention to the bar full of loaded guns. "Are you gonna shoot or what?"

"Hands up where we can see them," some tall brunette fellow announced from the back. Spike and Vicious traded annoyed looks. "And do it slowly."

"You know you _can_ shoot us without the standard routine." Spike snapped, impatiently.

"Hands," the guy repeated.

"Alright. If you insist." Spike's reluctant voice was the calm before the storm . . .

In a blink of an eye, the whole bar erupted into a fit of commotion. If Vicious had ever been critical of his partner's irrational fighting style, now was not that time since for once it proved effective. Spike had provided the distraction needed for Vicious to procure a weapon and the rest went down in a blur . . .

Spike had downed the last of the men when he turned to notice his partner. Amongst the onslaught of bullets, blades and what-the-hell, he had lost track of Vicious. When he could, he tried to block vantage points once he had used them, but since they _were_ in a _bar_ there wasn't much he could do to try and derail the man. Vicious had managed to shoot down the fan, which came dangerously close to landing on Spike. The two were just lucky enough that the Sharks couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, making the ricochet the only real element of danger.

Spike finally spotted Vicious bending over a body.

"What's wrong?"

"White Tigers," he responded under his breath.

"What?"

Vicious tore the insignia off the man's coat and tossed it to Spike. Spike furrowed his brow, agitated, and glanced down at the piece of cloth. "Hugh," he hummed, intrigued. "Then that means . . ."

"We don't have much time." Vicious stood squarely. Spike got the impression that his partner wasn't talking about not having enough time to leave . . .

"_Really_," Spike muttered, amused. "You know, they wouldn't know the difference. It would look like an accident."

"I know," came Vicious' stern response.

"Then I take it that _we're breaking up_?" Spike barely got the words out of his mouth before their long awaited altercation began.

Both men's guns had been discarded due to lack of ammo, and thus they used the only weapons they had at the moment. Spike was sure he'd win. But, Vicious wasn't as easy as Spike thought. He had killed the man so many times in his head, that it seemed so surreal. What Vicious lacked in agility, he made up with speed. This seemed so odd to Spike, who assumed that given the man's stature, that he would be slower. The pace was relentless, and vigorous – in that moment of violence, fighting seemed to be a perfect substitute for feeling alive. They were at each other's throat when instinct intervened.

Before the second onslaught of bullets rained through the bar, the two had scattered -- each diving in different directions, and searching for a weapon. Vicious quickly picked a gun off a corpse and loaded it into the dead man's gun. He hated using the dead's gun – it felt like an omen. He pushed himself against the wall, and glanced over the corner to see Spike.

"I'll go around," he announced, targeting the first man through the door.

Spike nodded slightly. "They're Tigers," he stated, noticing some of the men's uniforms as they came flooding into the bar.

In an instant, the eye of the storm had passed and down came the torrents. In the midst of gunplay, Vicious felt the heat of a bullet singing past his cheek, only to hit a nearby lackey. He quickly turned to see Spike, providing him his version of _cover_.

"Stray bullet," his partner responded, sardonically. Vicious smiled at the thought before disappearing through the back.

Spike couldn't hold the front forever, and judging by the looks of it, it was the Macy's Day Parade of syndicate cockroaches. He glanced back at the backroom door, wondering if Vicious was fairing better. _'He would have to be_,' Spike thought to himself. Quickly, he took cover behind the bar. There were just too many, he'd have to move out. Noticing a lull in the action, he darted through the door, stepping into the alleyway to reload.

'_Everywhere_,' he thought to himself as he saw another car pull up. He had no choice but to laugh. There was no way that these men knew that they were only up against two members of the Red Dragons. No one would go to _that_ much trouble if they didn't honestly think there was some sort of war. There was some warped kind of poetic irony at play -- that Mao had sent them to clean up the mess _they_ started. He just wished his mentor had picked a better day to send him out to get nailed by a hundred guys.

Spike quickly slunk through the narrow alley. His back was against the wall when he peered out from behind the corner. It wasn't looking as bad as before he reminded himself, before feeling the sharp metallic sting of a bullet piercing through his arm.

Spike glanced up and returned the favor, shooting the lackey in the head, sending the man forward off the overhead fire escape of a nearby building. The shots had drawn unwanted attention as Spike was alerted to men beginning through the back bar door.

He sent a few bullets flying at them before moving out into the street where it looked clear. He had managed to down the men coming from the alleyway. Unknowingly, he was just about to be overtaken by a man who he hadn't enough time to see. Before Spike had time to react, he saw the man fall dead before him. Instinctively, Spike glanced over his shoulder to see Vicious.

"Stray bullet," he responded, lowering his gun.

"You too, eh?" Spike shot his partner a small grin.

"Do you think . . ." Vicious trailed off, surveying the destruction.

"I don't want to find out," Spike answered, turning his attention to their car – their shot up car.

"Great."

"I have it taken care of," Vicious replied glancing down at his watch. Before Spike had time to respond, a black sedan was speeding toward them.


	5. Staring at the Sun

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**

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop or the characters from Cowboy Bebop.

* * *

**Staring at the Sun**

_"Cross the storefront cemetery  
Here me hailing from inside and realize  
I am the conscious clear  
In pain or ecstasy  
We were all weaned, my dear  
Upon the same fatigue"_

– _TV on the Radio_

Yen stood facing the floor to ceiling glass window in Mao's office. His hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets, and his eyes were roving the view of downtown Mars.

"You think they'll both make it back . . . alive?" Yen didn't move from the window.

"Naturally," Mao responded nonchalantly.

Yen gave Mao a sidelong glance before sighing. "It would be real easy for one to feed the other to the dogs."

"Even easier to make a death look accidental."

Yen's jaw tightened at the thought of it. He liked Spike. Spike was one of the better men employed at the Red Dragons. Vicious was the problem. The kid was too unstable, and he thought too much. He made Yen nervous, paranoid even. With Spike, you knew where you stood. Vicious was another matter entirely. With Vicious, anything that he perceived as a threat he took care of without warning--like a snake. A chill surged down his back at the thought of that kid.

"They're back," Mao commented from behind his desk, noticing the red light flashing from his PDA.

The two men went down to the lobby, anxious to see who was walking in by his own volition. In fact, when news got out about their assignment, men began taking bets and the entrance hall filled. In the midst of onlookers, Yen had managed to gain ten paces on Mao as he passed the reception desk. His heart stammered when one of the guards blocking his view stepped aside, revealing Vicious. His expression must have soured, because the young man responded with a devious grin -- or, at least his interpretation of a grin.

"You're alive," Yen noted, annoyed.

"It's a pleasure to see you as well."

"Where's Spike?" Mao paused a few feet from the two.

"He needed medical aid." Vicious' eyes remained glued on Yen, watching the man swell with anger.

"What happened?" Mao began toward the elevators.

"Enemy fire."

"Are you sure?" Yen questioned accusingly.

"That is the question, isn't it?" Vicious taunted. His lips slowly lengthened into a sneer. "I wasn't there when he was injured. But, I can only assume . . ."

"And Jamie?" Mao inquired, trying to break the tension between the men.

"He's been disposed of."

"Disposed of?" Yen gagged. "What do you mean by that?"

Mao glanced down and waited for the elevator doors to open. This was futile. Vicious wasn't very open when he wasn't being challenged by someone, and Yen was just hindering the process. Once they were on Mao's floor, he turned to quietly signal Yen to leave. It was of no use, Vicious had seen the gesture. Yen clenched his jaw and made some excuse before dismissing himself. He knew that Vicious would see this as a win, but he had no choice but to turn on his heels . . .

Mao led his protégé into his office and shut the door behind them. The room was blanketed by a mutual silence as Mao made his way to his desk and took a seat. Vicious stood as straight as a board by the office door. His hands were clamped behind his back and his eyes cast downward to the tiles of the floor.

Even in a stance of feigned reverence, Vicious managed to look arrogant. Mao noted this with a cautious smile. 'Perhaps it's just the age,' he mused to himself before resting his hands on the desk and lacing his fingers.

"I would offer you a seat but I doubt you would accept."

Vicious remained impassive. "The mission was . . ."

"Botched?" Mao asked, leaning back in his chair. The question elicited an expression from Vicious as his gaze darted up to meet Mao's eyes and his stance flared defensively.

Mao could tell the kid was trying to read him, and it was disconcerting. He wasn't trying to be deceptive, but the fact that was Vicious' initial conclusion made Mao wonder about his subordinate and the lack of trust between them.

"What happened?" Mao urged him.

Watching the man from across the room, Vicious' eyes narrowed slightly. His expression wasn't particularly threatening as it was suspicious. He began sizing up his mentor's intentions while contemplating the appropriate answer. The exchange took only a few seconds, but to Mao it played out in slow motion. He was intrigued – intrigued that this was the type of man syndicates looked to select and create, yet could never trust, and that's why things would never change . . .

"There was an extraneous variable."

"How so?"

"The White Tigers."

Mao's brows fell. Vicious couldn't, or rather wouldn't, believe that the "old man" wasn't aware of the alliance. It felt too convenient that he and Spike would have to take care of their mess without the added bonus of having the pain of seeing their transgressions fully realized and unloaded on them. However, Mao looked genuinely nonplused, and he was.

"Are you positive about this?"

Vicious nodded in response. "They were expecting us."

"Us? As in the Red Dragons or you and Spike?"

"Perhaps both," Vicious confirmed.

Mao glanced down at the papers stacked neatly on his desk. "And Jamie?"

"Dead."

"'Disposed of,' I recall you saying," Mao corrected, interested in hearing about the role the underling played. Vicious replied with a smile. "Hugh, I assumed that's what happened."

"Here." Vicious sauntered across the room and laid a small identification card on Mao's desk.

"You're dismissed," Mao replied, eyes glued to his protégé and ignoring the item of interest until Vicious had exited the office. Once the man had gone, Mao picked up the card and examined it. He sighed a breath of annoyance. Jamie had been an informant all right . . . an informant for the Tigers, aAnd, where there was one, it was certainly possible there would be more . . .


	6. Six Underground

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**

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop.

* * *

**Six Underground**

"_I can see like nothing else  
In me you're better than I wanna be  
Don't think 'cause I understand, I care  
Don't think 'cause I'm talking, we're friends"_

– Sneaker Pimps

"Mao has another assignment for you," were the first words Spike heard as he walked through the automatic glass doors and into HQ. He couldn't remember who said them. He hadn't been paying attention. It just sounded like some disembodied voice wafting over him; although, he was sure someone had walked over to him – or at least 85 percent sure. However, he wasn't sure who it was and if the voice belonged to him.

Stepping into the elevator, Spike felt thrashed – like he had woken up in a stupor with no recollection of where he was or what he was doing. "Animatron" perhaps was the word for his state, he thought to himself, or better yet, "depersonalization". He felt as if the world was in fast-forward and he was a void. None of it made any sense. Like a bird underwater, he could see everything, even his own body moving in the flow and shuffle of a watery time. Oddly enough, these reality disturbances were becoming increasingly more common.

'_Am I dead?'_ Spike stared at his distorted reflection in the metal of the elevator. The dead don't have reflections. He shook his head. His mind was flowing slow, but it was beginning to catch up; however, the emptiness gnawing in the pit of his stomach wasn't so easily shaken.

The elevator doors sliding back provided a convenient distraction. Almost on cue, Spike crossed into the monotone hallway and took a left into Mao's office. Upon entering, Spike was met with a surprise. His jarring pause garnered him the stares of Mao and Vicious, who both stood by the desk looking down at some painting.

"Come in. Come in," Mao called politely, making a sweeping gesture with his left hand.

'_This has to be a dream. Am I dreaming?'_

Spike did as requested, all the while eyeing the painting. He knew Mao collected art, but he usually didn't mix business with pleasure. Spike neared the desk and glanced down. The painting depicted some God-awful surrealist clocks. He grimaced at the art and felt his throat tighten. Spike was one who appreciated a good dose of irony, but that painting was the last thing he wanted to see considering his particularly disoriented mood.

"Don't you like it?" Mao asked, glancing up at Spike. Spike's lips tightened into a line in response.

Vicious, who had been standing a few feet from the desk, finally broke his silence. "Salvador Dalí's _The Persistence of Memory_," he named matter-of-factly. "It's priceless."

Spike glanced up at his partner, annoyed. "Curate, much?"

"I'm loaning the gallery my _Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory_," Mao mentioned off-handedly.

Vicious shot his partner a bemused look before turning his attention to Mao. "You usually don't have these pieces delivered to the office."

"Oh, it's not for me," Mao replied covering the painting. "It's the Van's, to go along with the rest of their Dalí collection for the art museum. But they're not here, so I was instructed to handle the piece until they return." He carefully placed the painting in the vault which was already open. Satisfied with the art's placement he shut the security door.

"Speaking of the psychological effects of weapons of mass destruction," he stated turning to the men, "I brought you here to give you an assignment . . ."

- - -

Partnerships never work. There's too much haggling involved, too many questions, and one too many opinions. Working in cooperation with a group was, if imaginable, even worse. Not only were there decisions to be made, there were many more opinions about who does what and where what funds are to be placed and why. No one ever agrees. Ever. And, to add to the social niceties and compromises, there was now the new burden of red-tape. If there was a word in the human language Spike hated more than "compromise" it was "red-tape". Both were the business equivalent of putting a leash on a man, and, he didn't like being leashed. Luckily, for him, he was partner-less on this particular assignment. Or rather, Vicious and he were working _separately_ on the same task.

Spike checked the rearview mirror to see if anyone had followed them before turning to Jin, who was the driver for the day. He made a face and clenched his jaw before resting a hand on the door handle. He didn't like the set-up . . . not at all.

Finally making up his mind, Spike pushed against the release and exited the car. He turned momentarily to give a sidelong glance over to Jin, who simply stared ahead. Spike lifted a brow and turned to the small Chinese restaurant – the Green Lotus – on the corner of Maple and Vine.

He had done as instructed. He was supposed to meet "John" and make a _deal_. He would offer his services to the White Tigers in hopes of gaining entry into their organization and ferreting out the moles in the Red Dragons. It wasn't going to work. Spike knew this. If the suits at the Dragons really _wanted_ to implement a spy they would have used Vicious – he had more experience working as a double agent. Spike wasn't suited for that kind of work – it took too much time for too little pay off – too much red-tape.

So what was Mao and the syndicate playing at? _'There has to be a reason_,' Spike sighed as he thrust open the glass door. Maybe before offing him, the Tigers would get a case of loose lips . . . or maybe they _really were stupid_.

The instant he stepped across the threshold of the Green Lotus, Spike was met by the Tigers' muscle. Three burly men dressed in black suits cornered him, with one of the men roughly manhandling him in search for weapons. Spike rolled his eyes, growing more agitated by the whole charade. His mind wandered to ways he could just take care of the situation by force and be done with it.

"That's enough." The group stepped back to expose a tall thin man dressed in a navy blue suit. The man paused to look at Spike. "You must be Spike."

"And, you must be _John_."

"Come and take a seat with me." The man flicked his hand and the three men dispersed into the restaurant.

Spike quickly surveyed the area for other "men of interest" as he followed John to their table. There were only a few patrons sprinkled throughout the diner, most of which were elderly people and kids. Unless grandma over in the left corner was packing an Uzi, Spike's only concern was the deal at hand.

He slid into a darkened booth and fixed his gaze on John. It was not looking well. Spike didn't like being trapped in a booth -- especially a booth against a wall. Not good. He cleverly panned the area where they were seated to see that Twiddly Dee and Twiddly Dum from before were stationed at the bar, but he had lost perspective of the third guy. The third guy was going to be a problem, Spike just knew it. _'Three's never a good number,'_ he thought to himself.

"I hear your eyes are wandering," John stated matter-of-factly from behind a menu. Spike pursed his lips out of instinct and remained silent. "My resources tell me you're a good man to have around, but that you've fallen out of favor with the Dragons. They think you're too much of a risk and have put you on a short leash. Correct?"

Spike lowered his brows as he pushed his weight against the back of the booth. Right about then he could see the Red Dragons falling out of favor with _him. _'_This is ridiculous_,' he thought bitterly to himself before drawing a breath and preparing a response.

"I don't know about _that_. I just think they're old-fashioned. Too old-fashioned. It'll be the end of them. And if I'm not careful they'll pull me down with."

John glanced up from his menu and smiled deviously. "That's very interesting, Spike. I find you amusing. You look very plain spoken. Perhaps that's the problem. You're _too _plain spoken," he daintily rose his hand. Before Spike knew it, he was being pulled up by his arms and dragged out of the booth.

"What?" Spike tried sounding nonplused, but it was hard considering he already _knew_ how it all was going to unfold.

John slid out of the booth and stopped short of Spike, peering gleefully into his face. "You're work is admirable, really. Too bad we couldn't have met under better circumstances."

Spike yanked forth toward John, which prompted the man to quickly retreat backwards. Spike was immediately pulled back again and met with a sharp prick against his back. It was just as well. He did what he needed to do.

"Take him to the backroom," John stated carelessly as he began to turn his back on the quartet, "and, let Fang Li handle him."

Spike grimaced. He figured "Fang Li" wasn't code for "let him skip on out of here merrily" as he began to feel his limbs leaden . . . like he had been _poisoned._

- - -

Vicious glanced skyward as he impatiently stood on the loading dock of 3a Port Dolce. He had been waiting there for fucking forever watching ten of the slowest men on earth unload brown crates – with the word "Fragile" plastered in red – from a large space carrier. The reason for the wait? He was supposed to be meeting a man by the name Henri Quin, who was currently _overseeing_ the "idiot brigade" which was unloading. In actuality, Quin was on the phone inside a small office cabin to the left of the dock. On the cabin door hung a "do not disturb" sign.

Vicious stuffed his hands in his pockets. He had spoken to the man when he had gotten there three hours ago before being disrupted by the loaders and then a never-ending phone call. Vicious could see the man through a window in the cabin, and his eyes remained locked on him. He had no idea what in the hell could take two hours and thirty minutes to relate, nor did he ever want to know. He had long since suspected that the man was spooked by his presence and was on the phone with whoever was receiving the shipment. Vicious had no idea of what value either the shipment or the receivers had for the Dragons, since Mao was notoriously short on specifics and long on "you'll find out when you get there." He just figured that his job was to find out. That is . . . _if Quin ever got off the phone._

And with a "cling", Vicious could almost hear the phone hit the base. He quickly straightened his posture and pulled his hands out of his pockets. Taking a step forward, he realized how stiff he had become standing idle.

"I'm sorry for the wait," Quin stated in a voice that would have done a man in the drinking business proud.

'_Not sorry enough,'_ Vicious thought to himself as he looked the stumpy man over.

Quin was probably no more than five-foot-four, round, and had five long strands of greasy grey hair attempting to cover his baldhead. He wore a plaid button-down shirt, which was half tucked in, and a pair of stained khaki pants. This was in sharp contrast to Vicious' attire of a dark three piece suit.

"The caller had words," he said, attempting to laugh it off. With a wave of a hand he invited Vicious into his office.

Vicious gazed around the dock before moving toward the cabin. He noted the loaders pause and take notice of him. He shot them a pointed stare before crossing the office's threshold. Quin shut the door behind them and resumed his place at his desk.

"Well, go on. Sit," he demanded, gesturing to the blue-colored plastic chair in front of his metal desk. Vicious made a face before feeling obligated to ignore the neurosis he had about sitting with his back to the door, and took a seat.

"What do you need to know?"

'_That is the question, isn't it?'_ he thought to himself. He _wanted_ to know what this guy was shipping and the people involved with the transactions. However, he much doubted that question was going to garner him with many answers.

"What type of things do you ship?" he asked.

"Anything you want, kid. Although, judging by the looks of you, I can't imagine you would need my services. We ship primarily big loads of things. Who are ya working for?"

Vicious frowned at the question. "How long do the shipments usually take to get in?"

"Depends on where ya going with it."

"And customs?"

"Folks usually have brokers who handle the red-tape. We don't."

"Do you recommend any firm in particular?" Vicious liked where this was going. If he could squeeze out a name of a firm, he could most likely determine who was involved with making or receiving the shipments.

"The Valdez Group –" the man barely got the words out before snapping his lips shut with an unsavory smacking sound. Vicious cocked his head slightly at the man's little faux-paux.

"Hm, the Valdez Group," he said nodding to himself. "I'm familiar with them."

"I'm sure you are, kid," Quin hissed. "I'm sure you are . . . What do you want?"

"I want to know what's in those boxes and who's sending and receiving them."

Quin smiled deviously. "I'm sure you do. You and your little organization probably are dying to know what's in those crates. Too bad it's going to cost you and your little friend your lives," he spat, after seeing some of the dockers coming around to the cabin.

Vicious' eyes widened at the connotation as the window glass shattered. Instantly he kicked the metal desk over. Grabbing the man by the neck, Vicious threw him down and made haste with his guns, managing to down the loaders with ease.

Once the commotion ceased, the only noise that could be heard was Quin's whimpers. Vicious turned to see the man had taken cover behind the toppled desk, and looked up at him in horror.

"Don't kill me!" he sobbed, cringing. "I know where they are keeping your partner. Fang's got 'em, and they're gonna kill him!" The man's inane babbling stopped Vicious at the door. He paused with his hand on the handle as he thought about it.

Before Vicious could come to a conclusion, he had torn Quin up from the floor by his neck. The man's face was glistening with sweat and tears, and his eyes were tightly shut as he braced himself for death.

"What did you say?" Vicious demanded, his voice dark and cracking.

"I can take you there." Quin trembled.

'_Hell!'_ Vicious would be damned if someone was going to kill Spike_ now_, and that someone wasn't him.

- - -

Spike's assumption had proven correct. Fang Li was indeed not code for anything but maybe "pure unbridled torture," because, that was exactly what was happening to him. Dante had gotten it wrong . . . the tenth circle of hell was right there in the backroom of the Green Lotus, and Li was its master.

Spike sat in a small wooden chair. His limbs were tied by thin wire which he presumed tore painfully into his flesh; that is . . . _if he could feel his flesh_. Whatever the threesome had inflicted upon him when they had him restrained back in the diner had done a good job in paralyzing him. He felt like a pinned fly whose wings were being torn from its back while it was still alive. He could see what Fang Li was doing, but he was unable to stop it. He was trapped in his head, unable to speak, move, topple the chair – nothing. Maybe joining the Tigers wasn't looking so bad right about now . . .

"Now, my little friend, what should I do next?" Fang's hot breath hit Spike's face. He could still smell, unfortunately, since the man reeked of an odor which could only be described as day-old fish which had been rotting in the sun. Spike's mental reflex was to cringe away from the foul scent.

'_Nope. Still paralyzed,'_ he thought sardonically to himself. Watching Fang Li have at him, breaking things, and whatnot, probably would have been more offensive if he could have felt it actually happening. But since that wasn't the case, Spike couldn't help but feeling disturbed. Not by the idea of being tortured, but by the very fact that he couldn't feel it. It seemed like it wasn't even happening, like he was just delusional. Perhaps the _real_ torture was what this all did to his mind. He felt like he was drowning . . . in a dream.

"You know what I was before this?" Li asked amused.

'_A failed surgeon,'_ Spike thought wryly.

"A surgeon," the man answered.

Spike could've laughed just at the absurdity of it all. Somewhere in the back of his mind he _just_ knew he was going to wake up and find himself in bed with some woman in a house where they had ten screaming kids and were employed as farmers. None of this could be real. Who joins a syndicate anyway? It all had to be a dream.

The man leaned Spike's chair back, bracing it against the wall. "You know what kind of surgeon I was? No? Well, I'll tell you. I was an eye surgeon, before I got my license ripped away," he answered with a maniacal laugh as another wave of foul smelling breath hit Spike.

'_Okay. Maybe this isn't just a dream,'_ Spike thought as he watched the man attach some strange metallic instrument to his head to stabilize it.

"What was that biblical passage? The one where you should remove the eye that offends you?" He laughed at the thought. "Now, I forget how it goes. Which eye was it again?"

- - -

Vicious had made sure the mystery crates were secured by some of the Dragons, before taking off in the direction of the Green Lotus with some of the men. It took no time to get across town to the diner, and as they pulled up the group quickly filed in with Vicious dragging Quin behind him.

"Now, where is he?"

"In the back! In the back!" Quin was quickly thrown to the floor as Vicious found the backroom.

"It's locked," one of the men informed.

Vicious shot him an agitated glance before shooting the door knob off and shoving it open. And there, strapped to an overturned chair in a pool of blood was Spike. Vicious flung the chair over to see his partner was badly beaten and missing an eye. But, the kid was still alive and staving off unconsciousness. Vicious made a face and cringed back as he saw the extent of damage dealt to Spike

"Where is he? Where is Li?" Vicious asked.

"In my pocket," Spike managed to find his voice. "In my pocket," he repeated.

Vicious' brows furrowed before it dawned on him to _check_ Spike's coat pocket. Quickly, he withdrew a vial filled with liquid.

"They're dealing it," Spike managed to choke out before slipping into numb unconsciousness.

"Vicious, we've got company," one of the men informed amidst sounds of gunshots . . .


	7. Strange Little Girl

**

* * *

**

I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop.

* * *

**Strange Little Girl**

"_She'd run to the town one day  
Leaving home and the country fair  
Just beware  
When you're there  
Strange little girl . . ."_

– The Stranglers

He had given her plenty of time to make her decision. However, Julia couldn't help but feel that the element of time wasn't entirely one-sided. Vicious was sorely independent. This must have been awkward to him, which led her to wonder: _Why_? Why hadn't he forgotten her all those years ago? He surely could have found someone closer to suit his needs.

Julia felt a chill tear through her veins as she thought about it. He _wanted_ something, or else, he felt he had a debt to repay. It was either one or the other, or perhaps a combination of both. Julia wasn't sure which. It would be ridiculous to think that he felt obligated to repay her for that mere act of kindness almost ten years ago. Yet, she had _nothing_ for him to want . . . And, Julia wasn't delusional enough to believe that for three years he had been pining away for her on both Titan and Mars.

'_So why?' _she thought to herself as she unpacked her luggage.

She had found a small one room apartment one the south-side of town. It was tiny and not well lit, but she had grown accustomed to such living conditions by now. The only consolation she had was that it was _hers_ – bought and paid for with her own money.

Julia had been folding the same shirt for the past ten minutes when her foggy thoughts began to focus on her situation again. Vicious had no idea where she was. Julia had not informed him of her arrival. She just told him that she was coming, and would ring him up with the details at a later date. She insisted, at least to herself, that she didn't need anyone's handouts. She was completely self-sufficient . . ._ in theory_.

'_If I'm so sufficient then why am I here?'_ was the question that kept hammering its way into her head.

'_Is it for love?'_ Julia pursed her lips at the thought while folding her shirt yet again before placing it neatly in her dresser. She lingered on the question for a moment wondering how to define the word "love". She loved Vicious, perhaps, but not in a "happily-ever-after" kind of way. She loved him like she imagined she would have loved a guardian; she loved him with respect. But, she was only working with her part of the equation, which was to say, emotional. She didn't know about his motives, and motives she was sure they were. He was a logical animal. He rationalized things too much, which made her question her own faulty judgment constantly. Those questions always kept her on the outside wondering what was going on inside, for Vicious' exterior gave her no windows to look through. He was a puzzle, indeed, but she wasn't sure if she wanted or could put him together. And, that's why she had been settled into her apartment for three days without confirming her arrival.

Julia had begun to wonder if her coming to Mars hadn't been a big mistake. Perhaps her being in the same city was as close as she wanted to get to Vicious now. This was her last chance. If she wanted to pull out and go do and be whatever then this was the time to do it.

Julia glanced over at the digital clock reading 8:14 on the nightstand. She heaved a sigh. The decision weighed heavily on her mind . . .

- - -

Spike glanced up at the tiled ceiling. He was in the hospital – he could _smell_ it. The pungent odor of sickness mixed with disinfectant was nauseating. He hated the hospital with a blind passion, which at the time was the only passion he could sum up considering he was half-blind.

He surveyed his surroundings with his only able eye. It was sterile. There would have been little sign of life or occupancy if not for his own broken down body. After looking the room over he finally came to the conclusion that he hated hospitals not for the implied injury one must suffer before being admitted, but that everything looked so damn uniform and empty. If it weren't for the numbers on the door, no one would know where the hell they were.

Spike lowered his head back to the pillow and sighed. There was nothing to do but sleep or… Spike began to check his limbs. They were stiff and heavy, but the pain was dull. Only his left leg seemed to be fully operational.

'_Deja vu,'_ he thought to himself. Being broken in bed was no different from being paralyzed in a chair, but now, at least, he could feel something, albeit the sensation wasn't pleasant.

Spike was concentrating on moving his injured right arm when the door to his room creaked open. He hesitated for a moment before glancing over to see the doctor.

"Mr. Spiegel, it's nice to see you awake. You've been unconscious for quite a while." The doctor was young and dreadfully cheery.

"Yeah, well, torture does that," Spike responded casually.

"Um, _yeah." _Vexed and a little disturbed by his patient's reply, the man buried his face in the chart. After flipping through a few pages, he glanced up at Spike. "I think you're ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Oh, the operation. On your eye?"

Spike furrowed his brow, wondering whether he got a say in the matter. It was his body after all. Maybe walking around with a patch would look menacing, and he always had a fondness for pirates. Spike smiled at the thought. Getting it replaced seemed pragmatic, everything considered.

"We'll get everything prepped. It shouldn't take long," the doctor said turning on his heels and beginning toward the door. "Too bad you woke up just in time to get knocked out again," he commented over his shoulder before disappearing out the door.

Spike frowned. _'Great timing, all right . . .'_

- - -

Vicious stepped into the hazy jazz bar. It was a petri dish for tourists. And, he had never been found of either jazz or tourists, for that matter. The only redeeming quality was that the location was in a relatively non-territorial part of town.

"May I help you, sir?" the hostess, a pretty brunette, offered. Vicious looked right through her, sending a shiver down her spine. Upon spotting what he came for, he walked right on by.

Julia sat at a small table in the right-hand corner of the bar. She was trying to look relaxed and poised, but she wasn't feeling much of either. She felt . . . numb. As she focused her attention on the musicians, she began to wonder why Vicious was _meeting_ _her _there. It seemed odd that he would give her that much control of the situation – allowing her to select the time and place. She smiled to herself. It was the illusion of control.

"It's been a while."

She glanced up and gave a small smile in greeting. He was dressed in a suit and his right arm was fitted into a sling. Concern glazed her eyes as she fixated on his damage.

"It's been three days, I was beginning to wonder . . ." Immediately, Julia's cheeks flushed and her body heated. Vicious smiled in reply.

Once again, Julia felt as if she had willingly walked into a snake's den. _'Deja vu.'_


	8. Bullet And A Target

**

* * *

**

I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop

* * *

**Bullet And A Target**

"_But what you've done here  
Is put yourself between a bullet and a target  
And it won't be long  
Before you're pulling yourself away..."_

– Citizen Cope

"I didn't know they had cathedrals on Mars," Julia commented, glancing up at the edifice. Her arm was looped through Vicious' as he helped her out of the car.

Julia's attention turned to the horde of people gathering around the church. Men were garbed in tuxes and women donned fine couture dresses. Julia was no exception; she was clad in a long burgundy halter dress with a black lace overlay. The dress was fitted nicely around her waist and flowed freely to the ground. Over the gown, she wore a long gold and vermillion brocade coat. Her wavy blonde hair had been straightened for the evening and was twisted into a sophisticated-looking chignon. Her bangs were swept over to the side and clasped by a delicate silver pen.

"Modeled after Notre Dame, I believe." Vicious lifted his gaze to the cathedral and took a step forward.

"Really?" Julia furrowed her brow in thought. "I think it looks more like Chartres." He paused for a moment to examine the architecture and nodded in agreement.

"A woman after my own heart," Mao interrupted politely, taking to Julia's left side

"Mao, this is Julia. Julia, Mao Yenrai." Vicious' delivery was deadpan.

"It's lovely to meet you, Mr. Yenrai," she managed softly, and lowered her head.

"No, the pleasure is mine." Mao gave a small bow. "Tell me, do you have a fondness for art?"

Her smile widened at the question. "I believe my limited understanding of art is a consequence of my schooling," she admitted earnestly.

"Well, I'm glad they are trying to give the youth today _some_ culture."

Julia playfully glanced over at Vicious and grinned. The nuns practically beat culture into any child they could get their hands on.

Mao made a quick survey of the area before returning his gaze to Julia. "I hate to intrude, but may I borrow him for a moment?" The question was rhetorical, and Julia obliged with a small nod. Vicious gave her a quick reassuring glance, and just like that she was left . . . _alone_.

Julia watched the two begin their way toward a group of men before her view was obscured. With nothing familiar in sight, she crossed her arms in front of her defensively. One never realizes just how _alone_ they are until stuck in a throng of merriment. A much-needed distraction finally interrupted her vain attempt at looking occupied.

"Pardon, mademoiselle, I hope I am not intruding?" a think French accent filled her ears.

Julia turned to her right to find a tall handsome gentleman had drawn to her side. "Oh, no. Not at all."

"Do you know the betrothed?"

Julia shook her head and tightened her jaw out of instinct. "No. I'm here as someone's guest."

"Oh, of course. And if you don't mind me asking, of what relation is your escort to the members of the wedding?"

She smiled sweetly. "He is acquainted with the father of the bride, I believe." Upon the words leaving her mouth, the man stiffened and his features sharpened. Julia felt a shiver bite down her spine as she noticed the man's transformation.

"Mr. Burchelli is a fine man, or so I hear," he commented dryly.

Julia pursed her lips together and nodded. "I see." She was no fool. The Chinese syndicates may have dominated Mars, but Venus belonged to the Italians, and the Burchelli family was the standard where she lived. The only piece of the puzzle that she had not put together was _why were the Red Dragons attending a Burchelli family wedding?_

"Come." The man's expression lightened as he placed a hand behind her back. "I have a daughter, Mercédès, who must feel just as bored as you look. I do not think your absence from this spot is of much consequence to your escort." Glancing over to find that Vicious had seemingly disappeared into thin air, Julia decided to join the Frenchman and his daughter inside the cathedral.

"Oh, I have forgotten my manners! My name is Franz."

"Julia."

- - -

Yen exited his black limo and stepped onto the sidewalk before turning his attention to the church looming in front of him. Upon examining the cathedral, he felt his daughter, Zi, loop her arm through his. Yen looked down on her with pride.

Zi was a sight to behold. She stood with a sense of grace and nobility which far surpassed her mere twenty-one years. Her complexion was luminous and her features delicate. She was clad in a green beaded lace-slip gown with soft silver accents. Part of her hair had been hastily pulled back by a dragonfly clip – a few layers, which had managed to escape, nicely framed her face. The rest of her raven hair cascaded down her shoulders in loose ringlets.

Zi glanced up at her father and shot him a devious smile. She might have looked like a painted porcelain doll, but she was pure hell-fire on the inside. Reckless, fiery and ill-tempered – Yen just _knew _she was going to be the end of him as he felt her tug at his arm.

Stepping over the threshold of the church, Yen checked his watch. It read 5:30, which meant it would be a good twenty minutes before the wedding began. The instant he felt Zi tear her arm from his and pull away, Yen was alerted to the presence of one of his men – Lin.

"Mr. Yenrai is in the left wing," the boy informed. Yen nodded, taking note of his daughter smiling coquettishly at the kid.

"Lin, do you have further instructions?"

"No, sir."

"Then, watch after Zi when you have a spare moment," he said, much to his daughter's chagrin. Lin nodded in response before being drug off by the girl. Yen rolled his eyes and breathed a sigh before beginning down the west corridor to discover that, yes, things could get worse.

Vicious was standing beside Mao. Both were speaking, but due to the commotion of people littering the passageway, Yen couldn't make out what they were discussing. He just stood there watching for a moment. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing the pressure at the corner of his eyes. Yen took a deep breath; his mind reverting back to a discussion he and Mao had earlier that day . . .

- - -

Mao and Yen had come into the office to finish some business that morning. To be precise, they were there to discuss the implications of the Valdez Firm and who was sending the shipments of Red Eye to the White Tigers. The Valdez Firm was known for its Burchelli Family leanings. This did not bode well for the Dragons since they had made a strategic alliance with the Burchelli Family in order to make way on Venus. The Burchellies had decided to two-time them with the White Tigers by distributing shipments of a new grade of drugs – drugs that the Dragons had not been made aware of. The betrayal was obvious. At that moment, however, fixating on the betrayal was the last of their problems. Their concern was focused on the consequences when word got out . . . and knowing the White Tigers, word would get out that the Dragons had been ousted by their own allies, and their power and influence was diminishing. If they were perceived as weak, they would be faced with a severe backlash. Investors, shareholders, business partners and politicians would quickly pull out of the syndicate. It was a no-win situation.

On Mao's desk sat the documents entailing the betrayal in black and white. It had taken them three weeks to get a hold of the information, and with each day, the clock was ticking down until the Tigers enacted their revenge. The documentation was staring them in the face – mocking them. Mao stood from his desk and moved to the window. Yen held his head low and pursed his lips together in a straight line. Both men realized the gravity of the situation, and what needed to be done.

"Perhaps the Tigers didn't know. It's been a few weeks and yet. . . nothing," Yen began disheartened.

"They're waiting to see if the drug takes off, which it will given its success on Venus. However, it would be foolish of them to announce a victory over us if the narcotics are a dud. The Tigers aren't exactly working a clean job, yet. They know of our alliance, and they know it would be very easy for us to sabotage their efforts by working out a deal with the Burchelli family to give them faulty products."

Yen clenched his jaw and looked up at Mao. "We intercepted the last shipment."

"Yes. But the logs show that there had been at least two shipments three days prior."

"They know the last shipment was intercepted?" Yen sighed.

"Undoubtedly. They came to Mars on their own volition," Mao answered in thought.

"First the Sharks, then the Tigers, and now the Burchellies. We can't fight everyone – not at once."

Mao nodded. "After the wedding, there'll be a meeting between the two syndicates. At the very least it will buy us some time. Vicious and a few of our men will be there, but of course, we will be sorely outnumbered so starting an altercation at the wedding would be inappropriate for many reasons."

"Why Vicious?" Yen snapped.

"He was personally invited by Virto Burchelli."

Yen's brows lifted in surprise. "Hugh?"

Mao smiled. "That's how he got incorporated into the Dragons. He ran into a string of bad luck with them, cumulating with him being drafted into the Titan War. I thought the kid had some potential and told him that if he'd run some errands on Titan, I would clear him of his debts. I didn't think that he'd actually make it out alive. So, when his time expired, I relieved him of his Burchelli problems."

"Provided he sign his life over to us?" Yen took perverse delight in the story.

Mao smiled. "Something like that. Virto took a liking to the kid when I told him the story. For a while he worked as an attaché between us – saw the worst of both worlds."

Yen shook his head. "I still don't think he's stable, Mao."

"He's getting better. He's even got a girl now, I hear."

Yen chuckled at the very thought. "That woman must be a regular Bodhisattva to be used like that."

"Used?"

"He's trying to prove he's stable. He's just biding his time while preparing to take our places."

Mao made a face at the answer. "I dunno. He's known her for a while."

"Mao, don't turn your back on that kid. He'd eat you alive soon as look at you . . ."

- - -

Yen reopened his eyes to discover that the corridor was emptying. He turned his attention to Mao to find the man was speaking to a few guests. Yen straightened his tie and walked over to join his old brother-in-arms.

"The wedding's about to begin," Mao informed nonchalantly after the group scattered. "You were standing over there for a while."

"You had been talking Vicious."

"And _you_ didn't want to _disturb us_?" Mao found that hard to believe.

"Something like that . . . hey, where's Annie?"

"She's probably found a seat. And, Zi?"

"She's running around here somewhere . . ."

- - -

The wedding went without a hitch. There was a ceremony, vows were taken, and it ended with a chaste kiss. The whole thing took about three hours much to everyone's dismay. After the pomp and circumstance, Julia glanced over to see her overly paranoid escort had watched Franz from the corner of his eye through the whole charade.

Once the two stepped out of the cathedral and into the cold, Vicious tightly grabbed her by the arm. He quietly signaled for Shin, one of the younger men in their entourage.

"Yes, sir!" he said obediently.

"I want you to take Julia home," he ordered, shoving her into some seemingly random car.

"What?" she asked, dumbfounded by the sudden change in plans.

"Yes, sir." The boy took the keys from the valet. Vicious quickly panned the area to make sure their commotion had been negated by the shuffle of people heading toward their vehicles.

"You don't look well," he said leaning into the car, making firm eye contact with Julia, who looked perplexed.

"Yeah, okay. _If you say so_," she answered, brows knitted.

"You need to go to bed and take some medicine," he added blankly, trying to make her departure seem natural in case anyone was watching.

Julia nodded, slowly beginning to catch on. "Yeah, you're right."

After shutting her car door, he turned to Shin. "Take care of her."

The boy gave a reassuring nod, and jumped into the driver's seat. Vicious watched as the two pulled away in the black sedan. He could spare Shin that night, he was sure. The kid was too green, and to top it off, any beginner mistakes he would inevitably make would be amplified by the fact his brother, Lin, was there. The last thing Vicious needed was an emotional liability on his hands, and wind up losing two soldiers . . .

- - -

Spike stumbled into his studio apartment at eleven-o'-clock that night. His body still felt like bloody hell, and to top it off, he hadn't quite adjusted to his fake eye. He clenched a white paper baggy in his left hand. Rummaging through the bag, he shoved his apartment door shut with his foot. Spike plucked out the prescription bottle that had taken him three hours to get, and discarded the bag on the floor. He entered the kitchen, flung open the refrigerator door, and began reading the instructions on the amber-colored bottle.

"_Take with food_," he read aloud. Peering into the refrigerator he found a can of beer and... nothing else. "Um," he hummed to himself in thought. "I wonder if by _'do not take with alcohol' _they're also discounting beer . . . as a _food_?"

Spike shrugged it off. He gulped down the recommended amount of painkillers and took a swig of stale beer. He cringed at the taste, and placed the beer bottle down on the sink. He slammed the refrigerator door closed before beginning toward his bed.

Spike was within an inch of the bed when his phone began to chirp. _'Who the hell would have the nerve to call me now?'_ He began toward the nightstand, stubbing his toe along the way.

"What?" he answered, seething with a mixture of annoyance and exasperation.

"You need to get down to HQ."

"Vicious?" he spat. "I don't _need_ to do anything. I _need_ to get some sleep."

"The Tigers are planning an ambush and you're only four blocks from headquarters. Quickly assemble a team and get down there," he stated calmly.

"You know, I'm not one of _your_ men. And how do I know you're not just trying to set me up to get me killed? And you _do know _that you can't just order me around – "

"Listen, Mao is –"

"Fine. I'm on my way," he growled, slamming his cell on the night-stand.

"Dammit!" Spike grabbed his cell, and bent down on all fours to fumble with the contents underneath his bed. He finally found the beaten-down cardboard box filled with artillery. Gingerly arming himself, he sprinted out of the apartment, wishing he hadn't downed those damn painkillers . . . with _beer_.


	9. Stand

**

* * *

**

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop or the characters from Cowboy Bebop.

* * *

**Stand**

"_Walk in a corner shop  
See a shoplifting cop  
See the old lady with a gun  
See the hero try to run  
Nothing's what it seems, I mean  
It's not all dirty, but it's not all clean . . ."_  
– J. Kilcher

Lowering his gun, Spike scanned the destruction that was HQ. "Good work," he announced to the few men scattered in the lobby.

Spike was finally back in commission . . . and not a moment too soon.

- - -

It had been a long day – so long a day that it was, in fact, the next day... technically. Spike passed through the revolving hospital doors. He was a sight to be seen with his blood-stained sweatshirt and pants, a still bleeding wound above his brow, and a swollen cheek.

Walking into the sterile infirmary caused him to instinctively grimace. His gaze searched the area until he met a familiar face. He was just about to begin his way over when a nurse cut in front of him.

"Excuse me, sir? Do you need assistance?" She was five-foot-two, blonde and round.

Spike gave a genial nod of his head. "I'm good." He moved to the side, bypassing the woman.

"But, sir, you look like . . ."

The woman's voice became little more than background noise when he had gotten a few strides ahead of her. "Hey," he called hurriedly before the man walked off.

Vicious paused upon hearing his partner's voice. He was half tempted to ignore Spike altogether before thinking better of it. He turned on his heels and faced the man. "Yes."

"You look surprisingly unscathed," Spike accused, looking the man over.

"And you look . . . _yourself_," Vicious responded in a rare moment of sarcasm. Spike's lips flat-lined at the insinuation.

"Well, some of us were actually _doing things _productive."

The two began toward the elevators. Almost on cue, a small "ding" alerted both to the arrival of a lift on the end. Vicious was the first in and pressed the "close" button. As soon as the metallic doors slid shut, he flipped down a keypad to impute a code that would allow them access to the private sector.

"So what happened?" Spike inquired.

"The meeting was a setup."

"And Mao?"

Vicious' eyes narrowed in reply.

"I get _that_." Spike quickly added.

"He was shot." The response resonated with bitter annoyance. "Ricochet," he elaborated, noticing the bemused expression writing itself on his partner's face. "Yen faired worse."

Spike didn't find that piece of information particularly revolutionary considering the source. He wouldn't have put shoving the man into the line of fire past Vicious; however, he managed to muster an expression of interest. "What happened?"

The elevator doors retracting back interrupted Vicious' response. Seeing that they were already on the floor, he thought an answer seemed redundant. Instead, he crossed into the corridor and led Spike to Mao's room.

Mao was sitting on the side of the bed with his legs slung over the side. A nurse was finishing the bandages on his right arm as the two neared the doorway. Feeling a presence, Mao glanced over at the door and gave an acknowledging smile.

"It's nothing," he responded casually. The nurse directed a passing glance at the pair before straightening her posture. Mao gave a dismissive nod and the woman took leave of the group.

"You don't look well," Mao noted as Spike crossed into the room.

"Ah, it's not _my_ blood," he replied with his usual cheekiness.

"I see. Have you visited Yen?"

Spike shook his head. "How is he?"

"He's up and moving." Mao paused and nodded his head in thought. "I still stand by my decision."

Spike furrowed his brows, puzzled. "What decision?"

"Vicious hasn't told you?" Mao's attention quickly turned to Vicious who was still standing in the doorway. Vicious' expression soured at the question.

"Vicious? Ah, he doesn't tell me anything," Spike answered casually and shrugged. "He's taken a page outta one of your books, I think."

Mao's lips lengthened into a grim smile. "Yen suggested that we put you two into _training_ and I agreed."

"Hugh?" Spike's brow fell at the reply. He threw a glance back at his partner who had turned his head in dismay . . . or defiance – Spike wasn't sure which. Either way, he shared his partner's sentiments. The two had been "trained" enough. They had managed to pass their syndicate "expiration date" and live to tell about it – for Spike that was proof enough that they knew their shit.

Mao's smile widened as he watched his protégés' resistance to the idea. "Don't take it personally."

Spike's eyes narrowed and his jaws clenched. _'How else am I suppose to take it?' _he thought, irritated by the insinuation that he was _under-trained_, or worse, _poorly trained_.

"You two are kids." Pausing, Mao couldn't help but cringe at his choice of words. "What I mean is that there is a lot to learn and you two are still young. It's in your best interest, I assure you."

Spike tried to repress making a face at the idea, and it took a concerted effort to keep from folding his arms against his chest in disgust. "Together?" his voice harsh.

Mao nodded, unable to contain the wide grin that was stretching its way across his face. "Together. Tomorrow you have an appointment with your instructor, Sam."

Spike had clamped his teeth together and lifted a brow. "_Sam_?" his voice discriminating, as if asking: '_What kind of name is that?'_

"Sam is very well qualified, I assure you . . . _both_." Mao turned his gaze to Vicious to see the man standing in the same poise as his partner. "However, you two will need to be behaved. Strings were pulled for this, and Sam is _very_ . . . _Well_, let's just say, Sam's light on forgiving and heavy on demanding." Mao looked the duo over to see that neither seemed amused by his spiel. "Think of it as an assignment."

"How long?" Vicious inquired, breaking his silence.

"As long as it takes."

The partners said their goodbyes before exiting the room and stepping into the hallway. "_This _was Yen's idea . . . _right_?" Spike snapped off the question. Vicious nodded in response.

"So when you said 'Yen faired worse,' you _did_ mean he died shortly after giving that suggestion?"

Vicious gave his partner a sidelong glance before stopping for no apparent reason. Spike followed suit. He glanced around confused.

"What?"

Vicious stared straight ahead. "Yen," he stated impassively.

"Spike," the man greeted. Yen appeared well or, at least in Spike's estimation, better than Mao. If Yen had received a scratch from the altercation, it went undetected.

"Yen, you look well," Spike responded. The man smiled. It wasn't until he took a few steps forward that Spike noticed he walked with a slight limp. But, a slight limp hardly seemed to merit what Vicious was implying.

After a few pleasantries, Yen dismissed himself and began his way to Mao's room. Spike glanced over at Vicious suspiciously. "He doesn't seem that bad off."

Vicious smiled. "He doesn't _appear_ so . . ."

- - -

It was early the next day when the two met again for their "assignment". They had been directed to a seemingly inconspicuous apartment building in a nondescript part of town. Spike drew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and fingered in the building's security code. The glass door budged with a hiss of air and the two were inside. This might have been their easiest job yet . . . or so Spike was prone to think . . .

The inside of the building was quite different from its grey exterior. The small foyer was impeccably clean and cozy. The few pieces of furniture in the area were simple but made with quality.

Spike glanced around to find the foyer empty. "Looks like no one's here. Let's leave." He was about to turn and head for the exit when a young teenage boy passed through a red door, alerting the pair to his presence.

"I apologize. You both are thirty minutes late, so the instructor thought you were not coming," he rattled out as he bowed politely. The boy appeared no more than sixteen years of age. He was garbed in a white shirt and pant set, and stood at about six-feet. He would have seemed no different from any other ordinary teenager save for his subservient nature and shaved head.

Spike lifted a brow as he glanced over at Vicious, who, too, appeared a little pensive about the situation. "So, what now?" Spike asked casually.

"Oh, yes, the instructor is finishing up a lesson. It will be a few minutes."

"Sam, right?" Spike inquired brashly.

"No, my name is Sousuke."

"The instructor – Sam, right?"

The boy looked horror-stricken by Spike's question. "Ugh, yeah," he managed, stunned by the man's impoliteness. "Please, have a seat while you wait. I will be back when the lesson is over."

Spike and Vicious traded puzzled looks before doing as suggested. And, sit and wait they did ... for thirty-five minutes. When Sousuke finally came back through the red door, it wasn't a moment too soon.

"Come," he said, cheerfully gesturing for the pair to follow.

The boy led the two down a corridor and into a large empty room with hard wood floors and painted a mossy-green color. "You may take a seat on the floor. Sarah will be with you shortly," he announced before turning and shutting the door on them.

"Sarah?" Spike asked himself. "Who the hell?" Vicious shook his head as he glanced around the room.

"There has to be something more to this," Spike sighed. "I mean, it_ is_ Mao, and he's real big on the whole 'figure it out for yourself, sink or swim' crap." Vicious watched his partner, deriving some amusement from Spike's irritation.

The focal point in the room quickly shifted when the door slid open revealing a small girl carrying a tray with small cups. "Hello," she said politely as she scurried into the room. Both Spike and Vicious resigned themselves to sitting as she entered. Sarah looked to be twelve yet she possessed a rare grace as she set the tea out for three. Once the tea was set, she gave a polite bow before exiting.

Spike was in the middle of releasing an exasperated sigh when the door slid back revealing an unusual looking woman. She was dressed in a long dark kimono-inspired robe. The woman appeared to be in her late thirties, early forties. She was tall and slender with long silver hair and vacant grey eyes. In her hand was a thin black cane, and by her side was a large white dog. Once the dog had entered, she turned and shut the door behind her before crossing the floor and taking a seat in front of her tea.

Spike lowered his brow as he watched her. She moved with the fluidity and confidence of a sighted person, but judging by her aides and vacant eyes, it was clear she was anything but. As she sat, he began to wonder just who in the hell was _she_?

"Spike and Vicious, correct?" She turned her head to give the appearance of looking at them. Both stared at her suspiciously without answering. "Mao gave you high recommendations, yet I find nothing remarkable thus far from your performance." Her voice was soft, delicate and absolute.

"Ugh, _who are you_?" Spike asked.

"I am your instructor."

Vicious' eyes widened as he tried to repress a chuckle. Spike smiled at the answer and shook his head. "You're Sam?" Spike asked unconvinced.

"I am Samsara, if that is what you mean."

"Listen, lady, I'm sure Mao has a really good reason for all this . . ."

"Yes, he does. He said you were both undisciplined and were a potential liability to your organization," she interrupted matter-of-factly.

Spike could feel his left brow twitch. "And, I'm sure you're wicked good with a cane and everything, but . . ."

She smiled. "But what?" she urged when she felt a lull.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I'm sorry I wasted your time, but this just isn't my cup of tea." He picked up the small drinking vessel in front of him and gulped down its contents in reference to the whole charade.

Before he had managed to draw the cup from his lips, she had successfully swiped the container from his hands with the tip of her cane. Spike's eyes widened when he saw the cup sitting upwards in front of him. "Ugh?" he murmured.

"Wasted my time?" she scoffed. "Indeed! You have _wasted_ my time. Your late arrival and your arrogant disregard for my services has very much wasted my time. I am sure you are very good at wasting time – your's, mine, your organization's and countless others'. Mao's assessment of your character was correct, Spike," she answered, remaining expressionless despite her tone of voice. Spike was taken aback by her knowing which of the two she was speaking to without _seeing_ them. _Was she really blind?_

"Please send Mao my regards when you tell him that I have _rejected_ his protégés . . ."

- - -

"Rejected?" Mao laughed, bemused. "However did you managed that?"

Spike was about to reply when Mao cut him off. "Oh, never mind, I can imagine _how_," he shook his head. "Well, you both failed your assignment."

"_What_?" Vicious choked.

"I gave you this as an assignment. You were to be accepted and train at Sam's school. You defied my orders and she rejected you both. There should be some sort of consequence for this," he replied earnestly.

"Why?" Spike protested.

"_Why_? Whether or not you want to admit it, the woman who just rejected you is the proprietor of one of the best training facilities on Mars. Sam's family has been running that place since I was your age. And this was how I paid a woman who agreed to grant me a favor? Your actions have disgraced me and the Red Dragons."

As much as Spike wanted to maintain his normal laissez-faire attitude, he was beginning to see Mao's point, even if it was begrudgingly so. "What do you want us to do?" Spike paused, not liking the sound of what he just said and added, "She's blind!"

"You had me right up until the end," Mao chastised.

"She _is_ blind?" Vicious asked quietly from his position braced against a wall. He was unsure given her actions regarding Spike and a certain cup of tea.

"Yes, she is blind, and she is still one of the best instructors in Mars. Even if she cannot help you per se, she will know someone skilled who can."

Spike sighed and folded his arms against his chest. "Our punishment?"

- - -

"_Our punishment_?" Vicious whispered in a low growl, glaring over at Spike from their bowed position on the floor.

"As you can see, they are very sorry," Mao said in an attempt to make amends.

"That's one way of putting it," Samsara stated unamused.

"They _do know_ we're in the room, right?" Vicious whispered to himself.

"She _is_ blind," Spike answered in a tone equally as quiet.

"But, Mao isn't."

"He's old."

Mao grimaced at the debacle and shook his head. "They are foolish."

"I concur," she agreed. "They need to learn humility."

"Indeed." Mao shook his head again as he eyed the pair on the floor. "Please accept my deepest apologies. These two have been nothing but trouble since the moment I met them. However, they are very lucky," he stated politely.

"I can sense that much."

"They are challenging. But, surely you can handle such a challenge?"

She glanced over at the man and shook her head, knowing where this was going. Mao was trying to bait her – it was a very poor bait, but given his relative position to her in the hierarchy of things, she smiled at his politeness. "Too challenging for you?" Her smile widened playfully.

"Very challenging, yes. Will you please _do_ something with them?"

She laughed softly. "I will give them a chance to prove themselves. If I can down them in three moves or less then I will see to their training under the condition they must demonstrate perfect obedience to me and any other instructor at my school," she directed her voice to the two on the floor.

"_Perfect obedience_?" Mao questioned skeptically. "I dunno . . ."

"And if we down you or you have to use more than three moves, then what do we get?" Spike asked, unintentionally interrupting his mentor.

Samsara glanced over at Mao. "We'll work on 'perfect'," she responded lowly, smiling. "You, Mr. Spiegel, will earn my respect and will be honorably dismissed."

"How many tries do we get?" he asked.

She laughed. "If you're as good as you seem to believe, then a _blind woman _should pose _you_ no threat."

Vicious furrowed his brow, unsure of his stance on fighting a disabled _woman_. There seemed to be no sport in that. Especially a blind woman in a dress, it seemed _wrong_ in a world were not much was.

"Any time," she said confidently.

Mao took a few steps back to watch the display, and a display it was, albeit a very _short_ one. Spike posed no challenge for the woman to down him in one swift movement on three different tries. When it was Vicious' turn, he seemed more thoughtful about the situation, unlike Spike who went on instinct, but Vicious' end was no different from his partner's. He found himself on the floor quickly. Spike glanced up at her, amused.

"What did they do wrong?" Mao asked, already knowing the answer; however, he doubted his protégés had the foggiest notion.

"Everything," she sighed. "Spike was rash, head-strong and relied on instinct alone. While instinct is essential, it is not everything. Movement, flow and concentration, while present were there only in small amounts. He moved like he was eager to be defeated."

"And Vicious?"

She smiled. "Thoughtfulness and analyzing are good traits, but again they can be too restrictive when they are the only tools one uses. The concentration on the mind alone causes a disconnect from the body. Also, his prejudice or pridefulness toward fighting a woman was an apparent distraction. Knowing the syndicates are predominantly run by men, this may be inconsequential, but if faced with a female opponent he would be easy fodder."

Vicious' expression darkened at the insinuation.

"Both lack discipline, structure, obedience and humility," she added.

Mao laughed. "As I thought_. Is there any helping them_?" he added playfully.

"I know instructors and styles appropriate for each."

"Ugh?" Spike mumbled. "You mean we went through all of _that_ and _you_ _aren't _even going to be our instructor?"

She chuckled. "I went from being incompetent to having mastered all the styles of martial art? Hardly. I said I would see to your training, and I will. However, I am not capable of being your _sole_ trainer."

Both Spike and Vicious peeled themselves off the ground. "Training begins promptly at four-o'-clock," she added as the threesome began toward the door.

"Four-o'-clock, as in AM?" Spike asked, eyes wide.

Samsara shot him a stern look. "Of course."

'_Damn . . .'_


	10. Talk

**

* * *

**

I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop.

* * *

**Talk**

_Are you lost or incomplete?  
Do you feel like a puzzle, you can't find your missing piece?  
Tell me, how do you feel?  
Well, I feel like they're talking in a language I don't speak  
And they're talking it to me_

– Coldplay

Spike sat Indian-style on the floor in one of the many training rooms at Samsara's facility. It was 5:30 in the morning on a Monday. Despite the early training hours, he had been prompt to each lesson for a month. Shutting his eyes for a brief moment, Spike thought back to his first _real_ lesson with Sam. She had an unnatural knack of saying the most scathing things as if they were compliments. At this reflection, he smiled. He remembered her asking him if he was a fan of Bruce Lee. Spike had answered like a rabid devotee. Sam then went on to compliment the style of Jeet Kune Do, and then politely told Spike that she could tell he was a fan by his movements from the other day. Spike was expecting her to say something pleasant about his style. She told him that he was horrible… She then proceeded to tell him that she knew of a man who was very skilled in the style and who would train him if he wished. Spike accepted.

Spike opened his eyes upon feeling the presence of someone enter the room.

"Ah, you're getting better at sensing others." It was Samsara. "Now, if I could get you to quit sucking on those horrible sticks -- you and your friend both!"

He rarely saw Samsara except for a weekly "check-up" to see how things were going, but that was usually at the end of the week. Vicious worked with her more since she was more comfortable with weapon training than hand-to-hand combat.

Spike turned to face her. It appeared that she was hiding something behind her back. He was curious to find out what she had in store for him next . . .

"Your training thus far should have prepared you for fighting on a millisecond to millisecond basis. Correct?"

Forgetting she was blind, Spike nodded before redressing himself. "Yes."

"Utilizing weapons, other than one's guns, is very important to fighting. Guns run out of bullets, but finding objects within your environment and learning how to properly interact with them may be a life saver. So you will begin training with melee weapons today."

Spike had a look of amusement as he listened. "Which weapon?"

"This," she said, unveiling the "hidden" object.

Spike's eyes narrowed. "A broom?" he questioned in an incredulous tone.

"Precisely."

"You're telling me when I'm out of ammo and facing guys with automatics use a broom?"

"Well, what are you going to do with your gun? Throw it at them?"

Spike sighed and pulled himself off the floor. "This has something to do with that whole 'be like water' principle, doesn't it?"

"Very good," she replied mockingly as she led him into another training room.

- - - -

As part of his training, Spike picked up running to build stamina, and for its obvious benefits in his chosen "career". He had always been good at running, it was easy, and it saved him from being yelled at by the trainers. How they would know whether he actually engaged in the practice, he was unsure, but he had an eerie feeling that Sam _knew_ when he was lying. She reminded him of his mom, when she was alive, in that way ... she reminded him of his mom in many ways...

After his morning run, Spike stopped by a produce stand selling oranges. He found the fruit refreshing after a heavy exercise, but he mainly stopped because of a cute blonde. She was tall, probably about six foot in her black stilettos, and thin. She wore a black sweater and a camel colored skirt that came down slightly past her knees. The woman's curly blond hair had been loosely pulled up into a ponytail, and her thick bangs were scattered across her forehead. She was inspecting the fruit when he walked up. Spike seized this opportunity to _conveniently _bump against her. As he did so, she accidentally dropped the plastic bag containing a few oranges. The oranges spilt onto the pavement and went bouncing in all directions.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. He bent down to help her collect the fruit. The woman glanced up at him, and that was it. One look into her calm blue eyes and he felt as if he had been hit by a thunderbolt. She blinked and smiled politely.

"It's alright," she responded in a soft voice before returning to the spilt oranges.

For once in his life, Spike was dumbfounded, and it was because of a woman. He could think of nothing clever or amusing to say or do, and she looked like the type who was not easily impressed. Instead, he just sat hunched over and stared blankly at her like an imbecile. Spike shook his head at his stupidity when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

The woman had finished tying her bag and was about to stand when she felt Spike take hold of her wrist. He yank her up and quickly took off, dragging her behind. She instinctively tried to pull away from the strange man. Immediately after hearing loud metallic bursts, she glanced behind her to see a black car had pulled up. Her eyes darted to the stand to find it had been decimated.

"What's going on?" she cried. She was beginning to lose balance, and tripped off her stilettos.

"Just follow me," he answered, yanking her closer when he felt her falter.

Spike ducked into a familiar alley. The two continued frantically down the back street until they reached a junction that was closed off by a chain-link fence. He quickly shoved her through a small gap in the fence. He nimbly followed suit. As he untangled himself from the metal, he caught a glimpse of the woman. She was staring at him inquisitively, or nervously –he wasn't sure which. She was crouched down on the cold cement tending to her twisted ankle.

"Who are you?" she asked calmly. Spike was surprised by her voice. He expected her to sound distraught, angry or scared, but she wasn't.

He flashed her a boyish smile. He knew he took a liking to the girl for a reason. "Spike. And, you?"

She grinned playfully. "Julia."

He liked where this was going...too bad they were being pursued. "Are you alright?" His demeanor seemed casual considering the fact that they weren't in the clear, yet.

Julia nodded in response. "Well, enough." She was a very convincing liar he noted to himself. He could tell she was sucking up her pain. Appearing injured would make her easy prey, and she wasn't sure of his intentions.

Spike turned his head and glanced over to the fence. He thought he heard the sounds of footfalls in the distance. "Good enough to make another run for it?"

Noticing his attention was glued to what lay beyond the fence, Julia grimaced as she placed pressure on her injured ankle. She swallowed the pain like bitter medicine. "Yeah." She feigned cheer and turned her gaze to him. "Your arm!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice.

Spike pulled away from the fence and glanced down at his left arm. She was right. A bullet had nicked him. In the confusion, he had not noticed it until now. "Shit," he spat, realizing he was leaving a faint trail of blood.

Spike shook his head and tore a piece of fabric from his shirt. He quickly wrapped the make-shift tourniquet around the top of his arm. His movements were natural and fluid, giving Julia the impression that this wasn't his first time being a target. Once he had finished knoting the cloth, he felt her take hold of his wrist and pull _him_ along. "Ugh?" he murmured to himself.

Julia had recognized the faded and torn _Lucky Shot_ poster and knew exactly where they were. "Hey, where are we going?" he called after her.

She flipped down a security panel and inputted a code to unlock a metal door. She pulled him into the building. Spike felt his heart sink as he surveyed the area to note they were in an apartment complex. Had he been tricked? Was she a decoy, and now he had fallen into a trap? Julia began up the grated staircase. She turned once she realized he wasn't following.

"Are you coming?"

He wore an expression of suspicion and stared blankly ahead.

"You're wounded," she reasoned. "Listen, you saved my life back there. The least I can do is clean you up."

Spike lifted a brow. She seemed earnest enough, but she had been awfully calm back there… too calm. He narrowed his eyes as he weighed the consequences and sighed. _'Damn those eyes.'_

Julia smiled and led him up to her apartment on the third floor. The steps just about killed her ankle. Once they had reached her floor, Spike panned the area like a beast on the hunt. He checked each corner and looming recess to find nothing. Julia unlocked the door and crossed the threshold with Spike hesitantly following her lead. Again, he meticulously looked the area over to find nothing suspicious. Finally assuring himself that the woman was not going to kill him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sit." She placed her purse down on the counter and stepped into the kitchen to grab some supplies.

"Do you do this often?" Spike asked, planting himself on a small wooden chair. He surveyed the small one room apartment. It was impeccably clean and sparse, but the furniture and decor adorning the apartment was homey and comfortable.

"Do what often?" she called from the kitchen.

"Go running down back alleys with strange men who you invite into your home?"

"Only during the off season," she retorted.

"Off season?"

"You know, when I'm not housing the runaway convicts and madmen."

"Oh well, then that explains a lot . . ."

"Doesn't it?"

"Julie, is it?"

Julia felt her heart hammer against her chest. Her hands numbed causing her to drop a wrap. "Julia," she corrected when she found her voice.

He straightened in the chair once she appeared with a large silver tray in hand. She set the tray down, and handed him a steaming hot teacup. "This will calm you," she informed.

Spike peered into the cup, made a face, and took a sip. "This stuff is . . ."

"Horrible?" she interrupted. "I know, but it works."

As she proceeded to sanitize the wound, Spike jarred sporadically from her. "It's not too bad," she comforted.

He glanced over at her, and watched her precise movements. She seemed comfortable with what she was doing, as if she had a lot of experience with bandaging up people. "Do _this_ often?"

"Cleaning wounds?" she asked, rinsing the cloth. "Yeah, I've seen my share of wounds."

He furrowed his brow at her response. She looked too young to be a doctor. "What? Are you a nurse or something?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No."

Spike was more vexed. "Have kids?"

She glanced up at him to say that question was a little personal. She shook her head and smiled. "Nope."

He was at a loss. However, trying to figure out why she had so much experience in cleaning beaten men's wounds had proved to be a sufficient distraction from the pain. "Dating a thug?"

A wide grin lengthened her lips. He felt like he had hit the jackpot. "Am I right?"

"No." She laughed as she wrapped his arm to perfection. "There, you're done."

Spike grinned. "I haven't finished my tea," he commented with a boyish look on his face.

"Oh…" She shot him a knowing grin. "Well, you can finish your tea while I clean up." Julia loaded the tray and scurried back to the kitchen.

Spike glanced into the cup. His face instinctively squinched at the thought of having to finish that foul drink. Instead, he placed the cup down and stood. Upon standing, he began to feel a little heady and tiered. Had she poisoned him?

"It's the tea," she commented. Julia was looking through the cut-out connecting the kitchen to the rest of the apartment. "I told you it worked."

"Ugh," was the only sound that came out of his mouth. "What exactly does this stuff _do_?"

"It's just a pain reliever."

Spike straightened his posture. He felt lighter in spirits now knowing he hadn't been poisoned. "So, what do I get for saving your life?" He sauntered over to the bar which looked into the kitchen. "You know I'm not a civil servant or anything."

"I figured that much," she replied sardonically. She turned to face him and braced herself against the sink. "I did take you home and cleaned you up… and those were some pretty nice oranges that you made me leave behind."

"Oh yeah, sorry about the _oranges_."

"And the ankle."

"I thought you said you were fine."

"Yeah, well, I lied."

Spike cocked his head and lifted a brow, feigning disbelief.

"All women are liars. You should know that by now."

Both smiled at the thought. Eyeing her, Spike realized that – yes – Julia was quite a woman. His lips tightened and he adverted his gaze. He pulled away from the bar and moved to leave. Stopping short of the door, Spike turned to see Julia had stepped out of the kitchen to see him off.

"To your _boyfriend, _the _thug_, send my regards," he said wistfully before departing.

Julia replied with a chaste smile.


	11. Carnival

**

* * *

**

I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop.

* * *

**Carnival**

"_The way you walk and I know the way you can  
The way you're telling me you're not a dangerous man  
I said it again, I'll say again  
I'm not that kind of woman"_

– Tori Amos

"What _are_ you doing?" It was Vicious' voice resonating from Spike's com-link. Spike had barely stepped out of Julia's apartment when he received the transmission. His partner must have had radar, he thought to himself.

"What are you talking about?" Spike snapped back, defensively.

"Yen has tried to contact you a reputed seven times."

'_Impossible,' _Spike thought to himself. He pulled his cell out to check, and sure enough there were numerous missed calls. He furrowed his brows. _How? _He looked the phone over to see he had "accidently" cut the sound.

"Ah – " Spike began but was interrupted by his partner.

"Where _have_ you been?"

"I was working out before I was almost drive-by'd."

"What?" Vicious sounded annoyed.

"Yunno, a drive-by. You've been in the syndicate long enough to know–"

"Who was it?"

"Hugh?" Spike could hear the frustration mounting in Vicious' voice. He had never heard his partner shout, and wondered how much it would take to push him over the edge.

"The syndicate – which syndicate was it?" Vicious elaborated.

"Hell if I know. There was a black car, but everyone uses black cars... I suppose I could've stopped the gunner from shooting me long enough to ask him, but I think that would have defeated the purpose."

Vicious found little humor in Spike's sarcasm. "Yen wants you at the office now."

"Alright. Alright. I get it. I'll be there in a second." Spike cut the link and sighed. "Jeez," he muttered under his breath.

- - - -

The moment Spike stepped into HQ he was met by Lin. "Mr. Spiegel!" the kid called.

"Spike," he corrected. "What is it, Lin?"

"Mr. Yen is going to start a meeting shortly in the Tate room."

"Hope it's nothing formal," Spike commented slyly under his breath, noting his torn work-out clothes.

"I'm sure Mr. Yen won't care. He's been trying to get a hold of you all morning," the kid assured him.

Lin escorted Spike to the conference room. It was filled so the two were forced to stand braced against a wall. Spike panned the area in search of his partner, but to no avail.

"Where's Vicious?" Spike inquired lowly.

"He's working a job for Mao. To be honest, I don't think Yen wants him to know what this meeting is about."

"Ugh? He was the one who informed me about Yen."

"He was only instructed to find some way to reach you and give you a message. He was the only one who could find your link code."

Spike clenched his jaw. He had wanted that code for private use... At least Lin's assessment explained Vicious' excessively foul mood over the link. Spike couldn't imagine Vicious liked being interrupted from work to act as some sort of secretary for Yen of all people.

"What's so important that we have to leave him out of the loop?" Spike asked.

Lin surveyed the soldiers gathered in the room. All of the men were close confidants of Yen. "I think it's more of a personal matter," he whispered.

Spike knitted his brow in response. He had no idea what sort of _personal_ matter could cause such a commotion. When Yen stepped into the room disheveled and pale, Spike quickly realized what could be so important as to merit a meeting – something must have happened to his daughter...

Yen informed the men that Zi had been missing for two days. Her apartment had been broken into and was left in disarray as if a struggle had taken place. None of her valuables had been stolen, so burglary had been ruled out as a motive. The suspects? No one, and yet everyone. They had no leads, and it was rare that the syndicates went after the family members of rivals. In fact, going after rival syndicate members' wives, children, and other family members not directly involved with the syndicate was heavily frowned upon. There weren't many rules in their business, but abstaining from targeting defenseless family members was the closest they had to one.

Spike nearly choked when he heard Yen say they had no idea who or what syndicate would have done this. This left the whole underworld of Mars and now Venus open for scrutiny. It would be difficult enough to pin point where a hostage had been taken if they could narrow the suspect to just one syndicate. Syndicates where not dissimilar to large corporations. Picking through the chains of command would take forever – but to have no starting point, the girl was just as good as dead . . .

Yen narrowed down the syndicates to the Tigers, Sharks, and Burchellies. He then assigned a team of men to investigate each organization. He was sure that it would be a matter of time before the syndicate that had her would reveal itself. It would be pointless not to do so. Why kidnap someone's daughter if not to make some demand or bait the syndicate into a trap? However, in these matters time is of the essence, and waiting idly for the opponent to make a move would be in bad judgment.

Once the meeting had concluded, Yen stopped to talk to Spike in the hallway. The area where the Tate room was stationed received very little traffic since it was the only place of interest down that corridor. After the men dispersed and the hall was clear, Yen felt comfortable enough to say his piece.

"I would appreciate it very much if you didn't tell Vicious of this dilemma," he stated humbly.

Spike nodded. He was about to depart, but halted for a moment. "I respect your request, but why?"

Yen turned to the young man. He didn't need to answer the question with words. Spike could read the unspoken sentiments writing its way across the older man's face. It was a power struggle, that was why. Yen and Vicious hated each other. Spike knew if Vicious could seize this moment, he would, and use it to his advantage over Yen. It was weird, Spike thought. If Vicious saved the girl then Yen would be oddly indebted to Vicious. Yen wanted to eliminate that possibility. He wanted to eliminate Vicious altogether.

Spike raised his hand and gestured that he no longer needed a response. Yen managed a small smile before leaving.

- - - -

It didn't take long before Spike had managed to get his hands on some information concerning Zi and her favorite haunting grounds. Spike figured if he could find enough information on the girl, then, he might be able to discern who had been in contact with her. He also had to check the list of potential perps against his designated syndicate – the Tigers. Gazing over the amount of intel he had managed to accrue, Spike let out a sigh. It was times like these that he wished he had a _partner_ . . . Spike brushed the thought aside, and phoned down to Lin, who was on his team. Lin could help him sift through the pile of information, and play a game of "which guy belongs to our syndicate".

"This woman sure was active," he sighed, scanning through the documents. He threw his weight in the back of his chair, and leaned back to stretch. He hated the investigation part with a passion. He just wished that whoever had her would just tell the RDS about it, if only to spare Spike the hours upon hours of paperwork.

Squeaking back in his swivel chair, Spike maneuvered around to see if he could spot Vicious in his "office". In actuality, both Spike and Vicious were stationed in neighboring cubicles. All Spike had to do was find the right angle, and he could peer in to look at Vicious; although, he rarely wanted to do such a thing.

"Hey," he called over to his partner. Spike realized he had Vicious' attention when he heard a lull in the clicking coming from the man's keyboard. "When you were working as an attaché for the Burchellies, did you ever run into a guy named Sol?"

"Sol who?"

"I take that as a no."

"What's his last name?"

"Zhou."

Vicious rolled his chair backwards and glanced over at Spike through a gap between the partitions. "I think I met his father, and I vaguely remember a son. Why?"

"Just wondering..." Spike answered distantly. Vicious shot him a vexed stare before wheeling his chair back over to his terminal.

"What do you know about him?" Spike asked.

"His father was a buyer for the syndicate and the government."

"Oh," Spike hummed, amused. "I wonder who got the better grade equipment...?" he added to himself. "What about Sol?"

"I don't know. If he's the kid I'm remembering, he wanted nothing to do with his father's business. Why do you ask?"

Spike pursed his lips together in amusement. "Nothing. Just ran across his name in a file."

Vicious wheeled back to get a good look at Spike to see if the man had lost his mind.

"What?" Spike shot back defensively. "I read files." Not even he could rattle that out convincingly, and opted to muffle the awkwardness of the statement with a cough. "_Sometimes_ I read the files," he added sheepishly.

Vicious stared at him suspiciously before returning to his station.

Spike sighed and glanced down at the stack of papers. He felt confined, and wanted to do something constructive. Something that didn't involve any of the 3R's. Ordinarily he would dump the information on Vicious, who would read over the interesting parts and dump the items of little interest onto someone else. It had become tradition. But, since Yen was being selective about who was in the "know", Spike was limited to Lin since the other men were working the field. How he managed to get stuck with the paperwork, Spike had no clue. Perhaps it was their revenge against him since he was a slacker when it came to the documents.

Just when he thought he was about to go stir-crazy, his office phone began to chirp. He snatched it off the base and answered with relief. "Hello?" Spike beamed when he heard the voice on the line. It was Bill Timbers, one of the contacts he had managed to get a hold of, and the man had a lead. Spike quickly jotted down the location. He was to meet a man by the name of "Bernie" at Grossman's Carnival, a permanent Martian fairground, promptly at 12 a.m. Spike finally had a reason to leave the office . . .

Spike hadn't been gone for ten minutes when Shin came by to look for him. Vicious had noticed his partner's exit, and he noticed the young teenager looking for him. However, Vicious remained fixated on the computer screen, ignoring the kid.

Shin inhaled deeply before stepping over the threshold to Vicious' office. "Mr. Vicious, have you seen Mr. Spike?"

"No," he answered brashly amid the sounds of typing. Coming out of his thought-induced haze, Vicious wheeled around to face the kid. "He left a few minutes ago," he corrected himself; however, this time his voice had softened.

Shin had a pleasant expression on his face. "Lin sent me here to deliver a few docs. I was supposed to hand this file to him personally. But seeing as he's not in, I don't think anyone will mind if I left them with you. Is that alright, Mr. Vicious?"

Vicious nodded and took the file from Shin.

"Thank-you, Mr. Vicious," and with that, the kid vanished down the hall.

Vicious glanced down at the file. He was no idiot. He knew there was something strange going on around him, or rather without him, and it had something to do with Yen. He figured that "something" was now neatly condensed and in his hands, all compliments of Lin.

Vicious grimaced. He locked the folder inside of his filing cabinet, and went back to the project he was working on for Mao. He would skim the material later . . .

- - - -

Spike had spent the rest of the day cleaning his weapons, and prepping for his midnight rendezvous. It had taken a good portion of the day to procure the items he needed, and cleaning his guns and making sure they were in proper condition ate up time.

He glanced down at his watch and grinned. _'Time,'_ he thought to himself. He caught a cab and directed the driver to drop him off three blocks from the Carnival. The drive over wouldn't take long, and huffing three blocks wouldn't take too much time. If it all came together, he would be there on the dot.

When the driver dropped him off, Spike was making perfect time. Walking the three blocks in the cool fall air gave him a small boost. He slipped into the desolate carnival ground, and stopped at the "Bullet" ride, as specified in the directions. Spike glanced down at his watch. He was a few minutes early, which was never a good sign. Waiting idly for some strange and potentially deadly contact in any wide open area was always bad.

"Well, hello. Hello. I honestly didn't think you'd make it tonight, Mr. Spiegel."

Spike turned casually to face "Bernie." The man was veiled by thick shadows, and it wasn't until he moved into the moonlight that Spike recognized who the man was.

"Ah, well if it isn't _he of a thousand names_. What was it before? John? And now Bernie?" Spike couldn't mistake that gangly body and car-dealer-like face – it had been chiseled into his memory along with all the other _fun_ events that occurred during his dinning experience at the Green Lotus.

"So we meet again. Spike? was it?"

"You guys are behind the abduction, hugh? That's pretty low, yunno? Kidnaping some girl."

"Ah, you see, you don't have all the facts . . ."

Spike narrowed his eyes. "What – "

"It's no matter. Not to you, anyway. Such things are of little consequence... when you're _dead_." Right on cue, the stadium lights surrounding the area turned on with a thunderous roar.

Spike casually glanced up to see syndicate lackeys armed with guns staring down on him.

"See, Mr. Spiegel, _dead_."

"Right back at you," Spike responded with a knowing look. "See those men up there? They're mine. So let's just cut this short and you tell me where the girl is."

The information didn't even phase the man as he motioned for back up. With a wave of his hand, up went the flood gates, and out went the hounds of hell.

Spike turned quickly to defend his position. When he swerved back around, the man had escaped. "Dammit!"

Glancing around, it didn't take a math genius to figure out that his men were severely outnumbered. It was going to be one long bloody night...

- - - -

Meanwhile, at the very same time in a very different part of town, Vicious was entering a posh restaurant – the Blue Note.

Julia glanced over at him and smiled from behind the bar. She was working there as a waitress, and at the moment, she appeared to be the only other soul in the place. "Jerry said I could close tonight," she informed cheerfully.

Vicious nodded and took a seat in front of her at the bar. He quietly watched her tidy up the area.

"Do you want anything?" she asked leaning over the bar seductively. Her blonde tresses spilt over her shoulder. A few strands had fallen in her face, reminding him of those old film noir movies starring Veronica Lake.

Vicious' lips curved up in a small smile. The smile might have been hard to see, but it was there all the same. "What's the special?"

Julia laughed. She would have never expected him to play along, even in an half-hearted attempt. "Ugh," she stammered looking the area over. "No speciality drinks," she added quickly. Julia had not even the foggiest idea how to mix half of the drinks they served.

Vicious' grin widened at her answer. "So no dirty martinis, or boxcars, or . . ."

"Nope," she answered with a shake of her head. "I don't serve any of that impure, add a flavor shit."

Vicious lifted a brow and shook his head. "Well then, what do you serve?"

Julia's eyes widened, and she bit down on her bottom lip. "Tell me what you like, and I'll tell you if I serve it," she answered coyly.

"This is a very cheap bar."

"We're practically giving the stuff away." She grabbed two beers and hobbled over to join him at the bar.

"What's wrong with your leg?" he asked, noticing her slight limp.

Julia smiled to herself and shrugged. "It's nothing. I just twisted my ankle."

"How?"

Julia didn't think Vicious would be real receiving of what really happened. "You wear stilettos and things happen." She handed him a beer.

Vicious took the bottle and set it in front of him, opting instead to watch her climb up the tall bar chair. She sat close enough that their shoulders brushed slightly against each other. Julia glanced over at him. She gave a weary smile before turning her attention to the pack of matches sitting in front of her.. "How was your day?" Her voice was distant as she fiddled with the pack.

"It went," he responded carelessly.

Julia imagined that they looked much like an Edward Hopper painting: Both sat together in a mutual but comfortable silence, each focusing on their own separate lives. That is, until Vicious' cell went off. Julia sat up. Her eyes followed the trail of sound.

"Hello? Alright. I'll be there." He clicked the phone shut, and shot Julia a sober glance.

"The office?"

Vicious nodded and took to his feet. He tore his suit jacket from the back of the chair, and offered her a hand. Julia shook her head. "I think I'll stay to finish the drink, and then I'll close."

He didn't like the idea of leaving her to close the restaurant by herself that late at night. "It's alright. I'm a big girl," she reassured him. "Go."

Vicious didn't say a word before leaving. He gave a small nod of his head and exited.

- - - -

"What's wrong?" Vicious greeted Lin as he stepped into the building.

"It's Spike, he went out on a contact call – "

"Did he take backup?" Vicious interrupted.

"That's the thing... Spike took some men with him. They're dead..."

"What?"

"Well, not _all_ of them. Most of them are dead. We have one or two at the hospital. It's just that...well..."

"_Well_, what?"

"We couldn't find Spike at the site, the Carnival."

"What's the condition of the men at the hospital?"

"Not good."

"_Not good _as in incapacitated 'not good', or as in lucid but 'not good'?" Vicious asked calmly as he began up the escalator to his office.

"The ICU, sir."

"Do we know who the contact was, or who made the contact?"

"No."

Vicious' expression soured, and the sides of his lips sloped down forming a frown. The two stepped into his office space. Vicious immediately went to his file cabinet. He unlocked the drawer containing the file Shin brought into him earlier, and plopped it down on his desk.

Lin's eyes widened. "How did you get that?" he asked. Vicious waved the question off.

"First, you have to tell me what the hell is going on," Vicious stated sternly.

Lin's jaws clamped down, and his eyes nervously roved the tile floor. He didn't want to betray Yen, but...

"Yen's daughter went missing, and we suspect it was – or rather we know – it is a set up. Spike went to Grossman's Carnival to find information on the girl."

"Did you retrieve any information on the girl?"

Lin shook his head. "Not a peep." He paused for a moment. "Yen wanted this to be private and kept quite..."

Vicious shook his head. He could care less to hear about Yen's motives. It was pointless to hear when he already knew what they were. "I have a pretty good idea where the girl might be. I will need you to assemble three teams."

"We don't have enough men available, considering Yen..." Lin began.

Vicious cut him off with a wave of a hand. "Can we handle two?" Lin nodded in response.

Vicious stepped into Spike's office, and picked up his phone to browse the caller ID. He remembered that Spike had received a call that afternoon. It might have been the middleman who arranged the meeting.

Vicious turned to Lin. "Do you know a Bill Timbers?"

Lin nodded. "Yes."

"Send one of the teams to see Timbers about the contact call."

"You said you knew where the girl might be," Lin urged.

"She's probably with either one of her two boyfriends. One for sure is a Tiger operative, the other is a Shark. Both are high-up."

"Why would the boyfriends kidnap her?"

"Are you positive she was really kidnaped?" Vicious lifted a brow.

"How are you so sure of all this?"

A grin curved Vicious' lips. "I'm not," he answered earnestly. He stepped back into his office and flipped through the file.

"Send another team to see about Tom Phelps."

"The Shark?" Lin quizzed.

Vicious nodded.

"Then what about the other boyfriend?"

"I'll go see Sol personally."

"Alone? You can't. Not by yourself. I'll come."

Vicious's expression soured, but he agreed to the arrangement. Not particularly because he wanted to, but because he figured that the girl was with Sol, and if worse came to worst, Lin would be there to make sure she got back safely.

"Let's get the teams assembled and head out."

"Yes, sir!"

- - - -

Spike glanced up to find himself in a grimy hateful cell His head was pounding, and his right side throbbed in horrible pain. The coldness of the slimy floor stung against his flesh. Spike surveyed the small room, and peeled himself off the floor. Pulling his shirt away from his injured side, Spike felt the thick wetness of blood. His whole sweat shirt was now dyed a deep crimson.

After assessing his damage, Spike braced himself against a stony wall. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. _'What the hell had gone wrong?'_ First, the lack of men used for backup was one of his major problems. He hadn't expected the sheer amount of Tiger lackeys who showed up. His second problem was the location – it was just too open, and his opponents knew its lay far better than he did.

Spike heaved a sigh. He hadn't been taken down by anyone's skill; he had been ambushed. He was shocked to realize he was still alive. _'I must've pissed someone the fuck off,'_ he thought to himself half-amused. It was rare for a syndicate to take a prisoner – very rare – unless they wanted to make an example of their opponent and add to syndicate morale.

He ran a hand through his hair as he thought about his situation. "This is not good," he murmured lowly under his breath. Thinking back on everything connected with this "mission", a curious memory nagged at his brain. He recalled Vicious telling him shortly after the wedding day massacre that Yen had faired worse than Mao. At the time, Spike didn't understand what Vicious was talking about. Yen's injuries had not been anymore grievous than Mao's.

Spike gave a hoarse chuckle as he thought back on it. Vicious had known all along what was in store for Yen. The one person Yen didn't _want_ to know about the situation was the only one who knew what the fuck was going on. Spike couldn't believe it. Vicious had known all along that something bad was going to happen to Yen – perhaps even known the extent to what was planned – yet he did nothing. Spike could've just punch that man for putting him through all of this. He realized at the time that his logic was impaired since Vicious didn't know, or rather, wasn't _supposed_ to have known what was happening. At least that would be his alibi if his motives were questioned.

Spike swallowed and shook his head. He was unarmed and had no way to call out for help. He didn't imagine that he had much time left before he was drug out for the Tiger's nightly entertainment. He didn't like that idea one bit...

- - - -

Vicious was positioned in the driver's seat, and beside him sat Lin. They had the furthest to travel, which was fine by Vicious, who hoped he would hear word from one of the teams before he began.

The thick cover of silence that blanketed the two was broken by the ringing of Lin's cell. He quickly answered and made a few humming sounds before clicking the phone shut. Vicious reflexively glanced over at the man.

"Timbers is dead. They found him hanging in a closet."

Vicious returned his attention to the road. It was as he suspected.

"I told the men to make their way over here after they were done searching the apartment," Lin informed.

It wasn't long before Vicious flipped off the car's headlights and pulled into the Sofitel's designated parking area. The Sofitel was a 5-Star hotel on the north side of the Champs-Élysées. The car was stopped by a watchman stationed inside a tower. Vicious flashed a faux ID car, and the man waved him on.

Once parked, Vicious checked his cell to see if Eli, from the tech department, had sent the blueprints of the hotel. Eli was not pleased to have been disturbed so late at night, and it was a miracle that Vicious had managed to convince her to come into the office. He was glad that he did as he downloaded the blueprints. It took only a few seconds to load before the phone radiated a blue 3-D hologram of the hotel layout. Vicious and Lin leaned over the phone. Both men's eyes were frantically going over every detail, trying to absorb as much information as they could.

"You know, when _they_ find out what we did tonight, we're all dead." Lin observed calmly. Vicious glanced over at the kid. He had to agree. The syndicate heads were not going to pleased when they learned of the night's goings-on.

Vicious angled his cell slightly to the right to read the time. "Lin, I want to exchange your phone with mine, in case I need you to give me directions. In fifteen minutes I want you to casually walk into the lobby and stay there. If in forty minutes I'm not back down, I want you to send reinforcement when they get here. Is that clear?"

Lin didn't like what Vicious was saying. The man had never given him an "if" order, it had always been a "when I."

Vicious looked the man over, noting his wide eyes and blanched complexion. For the first time, Vicious was distracted by just how young the kid was.

"I understand," came Lin's delayed response.

Vicious cracked open the car door. As soon as the soles of his shoes had met the wet pavement, he was off.

Getting into the hotel had been easy. Getting into the room wouldn't be. Vicious hadn't the time to assess the situation or to plot a sound strategy. For the time being, he would have to improvise, and he didn't like improvising. He glanced down at his watch and breathed a sigh. He was sure that Sol's floor would be on lock down. How could he penetrate the barrier to gain access to the room?

Vicious scanned the lobby. Spotting a cart, he resigned himself to a peculiar idea...

- - - -

Sol Zhou was a handsome thirty-seven year old man on the way up the syndicate ranks. If he managed this task well enough he would secure the merger between his clan and the Burchellies. Virto Burchelli had grown tiered of life as a crime lord. He had gotten too old to worry about such things, and with no sons to pass the business onto, he decided to sell some of his properties – particularly the illegal ones. Since he couldn't bear the thought of his legacy going to one of the other Families on Venus, he auctioned his properties to the Martian syndicates. The Tigers were the highest bidders, and a deal was struck. However, Burchelli was a very paranoid man. He would only agree to the merger if the Tigers promised to crush the RDS before the clan could regroup and retaliate. To top it off, the old man wanted _proof_ that the Tigers had fulfilled their contractual obligations. If it was proof he wanted, the Tigers were more than willing to oblige. It was nothing personal, really. Just business as usual...

Sol flipped his cell closed and stepped into the den. He stopped short of Zi to inspect her. She looked beautiful in her lavender dress. Her hair was neatly tied back in a twist, exposing her slender neck. Watching him intently as he neared her, she sat calmly in a large mahogany chair. He knelt on the floor in front of her.

"This won't hurt," he assured her in a hushed tone. She nodded in resignation. He kissed the top of her head before reaching for the binds. His hands were steady as he secured each tie. Occasionally Zi would stiffen, alerting him to any discomfort she was feeling.

When finished, Sol stood to look over his work. He pressed a finger to his lips as he studied her. He shook his head once realizing what was wrong with the picture. Sol leaned over Zi and tore her favorite dragonfly clip from her hair. Her raven tresses tumbled down from the twist and cascaded down her milky shoulders. Zi moaned and shifted violently in her seat as he did this. Sol ran his hands through her hair and mess up the locks. Deciding this was not enough, he knelt down again. His rough hands traveled the lines of her shoulders before meeting at the top of her dress. The tender touch quickly gave way to a violent grasping of the fabric as Sol tore the dress.

Upon hearing the ripping of cloth, Zi flinched and thrashed in the chair. Sol smiled at her reaction before forcefully placing his mouth to her neck. She moaned, feeling him yank her head back by her hair. His lips and teeth bathed the tender flesh of her neck with kisses; his left hand roughly parted her legs and began to travel up her supple thighs. Zi's moans and yelps were muffled by the scarf tightly pulled over her mouth. The session was quickly disrupted by a rapping at the door.

Sol turned to face the noise. "Yes?"

"Boss, did you order room service?" one of the guards called from beyond the door.

Taking to his feet, Sol straightened his tie and suit jacket. He glanced back at Zi and flashed her a smile before sauntering to the door. With one sweeping gesture, he pulled the door open. He was met with two very dead guards. Not detecting the perpetrator, Sol strained his neck to glance down the hall to his right. It was clear. He moved to check his left when he was halted by the cold sting of metal pressed against his temple.

"Mm," he responded, amused. Sol backed into the apartment slowly. His hands were raised innocently as he faced his opponent.

Seeing who was entering the room, Zi began to flail against restraints and cried out. Sol hesitantly glanced back at her to see her head was thrashing up and down and her body was jarring from side to side in an attempt to alert the man to her presence. Sol lifted a brow and grinned mischievously. He returned his attention back to the intruder. "I assume you're the one they call _Vicious_?"

Vicious made no sign either way of his identity. His icy blue eyes glared into Sol's black eyes.

"I take that since I'm still alive, you're interested in more than just the girl?"

"I could care less about the girl," he answered calmly.

Sol's brow furrowed, and his eyes squinted at this revelation. "Wha?" he responded, taken aback.

"But for the sake of brevity..." Vicious cautiously backed up to the girl, and skillfully flipped open a switch blade. He nimbly tore through the binds, freeing Zi. Jumping to her feet, she paused in wide-eyed shock like a dear caught in headlights.

Vicious glowered in her direction. "Go," he barked. She blinked in response, glanced over to Sol, and then back at Vicious. Finding her courage, she darted out of the room.

Sol smiled deviously. "You're smarter then I thought, but not smart enough. Burchelli was right, though. You and your little friend will make wonderful trophy heads. And I must thank you, really. You've just provided us with what we need to close our deal with the Burchelli family to take over the drug cartel on Venus. Bravo."

Vicious remained impassive. "Where _is_ Spike?"

"Well, if you're so insistent, then I suppose I can't stop you..." Those words sealed Vicious' fate... In an instant, the apartment flooded with Tiger soldiers. All of which, had their weapons trained on Vicious.

Vicious' expression filled with contempt as he watched the men pour into the room. He resisted the violent musing that possessed his thoughts. Instead, he lowered his weapon .

"Good decision," Sol stated harshly. The cell vibrating in his coat pocket caught his attention. After scanning the message, he turned to his men. "Take him away quickly as possible, but be careful we have _company_."

Feeling three lackeys roughly apprehend him, Vicious lowered his head and glared at Sol. A deviant smile lengthened his lips. Sol narrowed his eyes sharply... He didn't like that man one bit.

- - - -

Spike had made himself oddly at home on the stone slab "bed" when he heard the sound of footfalls and the clinking of keys fast approaching. Feeling a burst of energy, he sat up and awaited the guard's arrival. Thoughts filled his mind as he envisioned the different ways he could try to escape – all of which he realized were not feasible.

As Spike focused his attention on the distant sounds, he swore he could hear two sets of footsteps. The closer the sounds got, the harder Spike's heart hammered inside his chest. When the guard and the new detainee arrived, both were cloaked in the deep blue shadows of nightfall. The guard, a burly man, yanked the cell door open and tossed the other man in with Spike.

"Enjoy the rest of the night, boys. For it's your last." The man gave a full-bellied chuckle, and locked the cell behind him.

Spike lifted a brow and pursed his lips together as he watched the fat man waddle away. He then turned his attention to his new "suit mate." Leaning forward, Spike attempted to inspect the man through the shadows to no avail.

"Watcha in for?" Spike asked casually, leaning against the wall. The stranger retreated into the corner between the wall and bars.

Spike made a face at the man's reaction. "You remind me of my partner," he murmured.

"You remind me of mine, too." Upon hearing the voice, Spike shot forward in his seat.

"Vicious?" A grin burst onto his lips as he called the name. "Figures," he sighed, bracing himself against the wall. "My last night on earth, and I get stuck with you. I suppose we're even gonna die together. _Perfect_," he sighed.

Vicious turned his head to examine Spike through the shadows. Spike happened to be sitting in front of the only light source in the cell – a small barred window on the left wall. The moonlight radiating from the window painted Spike's features a pale shade of blue.

"Did you find the girl?" Spike inquired, staring ahead at the wall in front of him.

"Yes."

"So how did _you_ get caught?"

"I went looking for you." Vicious bit his tongue the minute the words sounded.

"_Why_?"

He glanced over at the man. "I'm the only one who can kill you."

Spike shifted on the stone slab and shot a vexed, but amused, stare in Vicious' direction. "Right back at you."

A few tense moments passed amid the silence. "So, you got a plan?"

Vicious turned his head to look at Spike as if the man had lost his mind. "Do you?"

"Yeah, but mine involves a miracle. Your's?"

Vicious combated the question with silence as he glanced through the bars.

"Have any weapons on you?" Spike asked.

Vicious stretched out his left leg. "A knife," he responded. "You?"

"Nope." Spike closed his eyes. "We're really going to die, aren't we?"

Vicious made no reply. By the looks of things, the two were as good as dead.

Spike lifted an eyelid, and trained his fake eye on Vicious. "Hey, do you wanna do a truce or something?"

Vicious stiffened uneasily, unsure if his partner was being serious.

"No, really," Spike added.

"Why does it matter?"

"Well, if you're the only one who can kill me, and I'm the only one who can kill you, then a truce makes sense."

Vicious seemed far from impressed by the proposal.

"That and it's the right thing to do. If I'm going to die, then I want to go out peacefully... or as peacefully as I can. No unfinished business." Spike thought that sounded coherent enough all things considered; although, his real motives for a truce weren't so noble. Spike didn't want to risk the chance of managing to escape with his life because he was on bad terms with Vicious. It wasn't that Spike was afraid of death. Death, he didn't mind, as long as it was a noble one. Being served up as high comedy for his rivals to gawk at, however, wasn't his idea of _noble_.

"Alright," Vicious responded, having had a similar epiphany.

Spike perked up at this. "Good. But how do I know you're not just saying this to shut me up?"

Vicious glared at the man in annoyance, and shook his head. "Fine, then. If you want a ceremony..."

A brow shot up, and Spike leaned forward. "Ugh?"

Vicious ran his hand down the bottom of his left leg and unsheathed a small dagger. "Give me your hand," he ordered gruffly.

"What?" Spike reeled back and made a face. "So you can cut it off?"

Vicious sighed and narrowed his eyes. "Give me your damn hand."

Spike extended his right arm, palm up. Vicious stabilized the hand with his own. He firmly pressed the blade against the right side of Spike's palm, and began to slide it diagonally down the skin.

"Shit!" Spike instinctively pulled his arm back. This action only made the wound worse since he ripped his hand from the knife.

Vicious ignored Spike's commotion, and proceeded to do the same with his right hand. "Give me your hand."

"No!" Spike exclaimed, having learned his lesson.

Vicious snatched it away from Spike despite his protests. Vicious shook Spike's injured hand with his own, placing wound to wound, mingling blood with blood. "There," he said discarding Spike's hand, "now the same blood that flows through me, flows through you, and vice versa."

"We share the same blood, eh? Like brothers?" Spike commented. "So if I kill you, I'm killing myself?"

Vicious didn't feel that question merited a response, and sheathed the dagger. He then proceeded to tear a piece of cloth from his shirt. Afterwards, he wrapped the fabric around his wounded hand.

Spike watched him, and then stared down at his hand. It was smeared with blood and stung bitterly. He leaned back into the corner and shut his eyes. The rest of the night was taken in silence as the two tried to regroup.

The bright morning rays radiating from the window nagged both men from their dark sleep. Both knew it wouldn't be long before the guards came to lead them to their final resting place. And, neither man was committed to the idea of dying that morning.

Spike turned a drowsy gaze to his partner. "Nice outfit," he commented, off-handedly noticing that Vicious was not dressed in his usual business suit. Instead, the man was garbed in a bellhop's uniform. This was the only time Spike could remember seeing the man outside of his traditional attire.

"Ugh?" Vicious glanced down, forgetting that he had snagged the outfit from the night before. He then shot Spike a "go to hell" stare.

"That's not very brotherly," Spike said noting the man's expression. Vicious could feel his left brow involuntarily twitch, and he redirected his gaze.

It wasn't long before the two were alerted by the oncoming sound of footfalls. Both reflexively stood, and, whether they meant to or not, shifted closer together.

"Think we can take them?" Spike had a frantic expression similar to the one a caged beast wore when contemplating his escape.

Vicious clenched his jaw, feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Depends on how many."

Spike moved toward the bars. Instinctively wrapping his hands around the rusted metal rods, Spike peered down the corridor. "They're not guards," he replied despondently.

"Then who?" Vicious drew to Spike's side to see what the man was talking about. "Damn," he growled. "Wardens, five of them." Wardens, at least in the Dragons, were highly trained soldiers who were occasionally employed to keep watch over valuable prisoners when the occasion called for such provisions. And, judging by the men's regalia, these guys were high ranking wardens. If the Tigers' wardens were anything like the Dragons', Spike and Vicious would prove to be easy fodder against them unarmed.

The five men gathered around the cell. The leader moved to the front of the pack to unlock the cell. All of the wardens were armed, and the four surrounding the captain had guns fixed on the caged prisoners.

"These guys are fucking serious," Spike said lowly under his breath. Vicious snorted a sigh in agreement.

Once the cell was unlocked, the leader raised his weapon before pulling open the door. "Go in," he ordered. The four forcefully apprehended and cuffed the two. Each Spike and Vicious had two guards restraining them. As an added reminder of who was in control, the wardens shoved their guns against Spike's and Vicious' back. The leader stepped back as his teammates drug the prisoners out of the cell. He trailed behind his men to make sure nothing went wrong.

Spike glanced over his shoulder long enough to trade annoyed stares with Vicious. One of his handlers took exception to the action and roughly shoved Spike forward by his neck. Things were not looking up for the two...

- - - -

Sol sat beside Burchelli's consigliere in the scarlet ceremonial room. He examined the area. Chairs had been set around the perimeter of the room. He watched as men dressed in formal suits and uniforms filed in and took their seats. The ceremony was open to anyone in the syndicate who wanted to come, and the occasion drew a large audience. Most of the men in the Tigers had dealt with Spike and Vicious in some way, and the ones who hadn't, had heard of the two.

Sol fixed his gaze on the two mats centered in the middle of the floor. Standing beside each mat was an expert swordsman – the executioners. A half-grin thinned Sol's lips. He had only seen the beheading ceremony once before when a highly ranked member had gone MIA and was later found. They had held the ceremony in his honor to make an example of him. After his head been severed, they presented it to the Clan's Tribune who were elevated on thrones along a table. Sol glanced over to the table to see that the Tribune was now joined by Burchelli, and they had brought out the bulletproof barrier.

Sol checked his watch to see that it was almost time. The lights began to dim, and the three doors leading into the room were closed. Extra precautions had been taken to ensure that all went according to plan, and lining the walls were armed soldiers garbed in white hooded robes. There was no possible way those two were going to leave that room walking.

Vicious and Spike were shoved through a door positioned in the front of the room. The two were then forcefully brought to the center of the floor. Both men struggled against their handlers, but the effort proved futile. Once they had reached their respective mats, the wardens swiped the men's legs out from under them. Both came crashing down to the floor on his knees and wrenched forward in pain. The wardens then back away to form a semicircle around the men. Their positioning would allow the audience to see every gory detail while still letting the wardens keep watch over the two.

Spike turned his head to face Vicious, who was staring at the ground. He shook his head and sighed. He could feel all of the eyes staring at him, making his body heat and tense. There was nothing he could do to stop it, or was there? If there had been he or Vicious would have thought of it already. Spike clamped his jaw and grated his teeth together.

"Miracle, eh?" It was Vicious' soft voice that Spike heard. He turned his attention to the white-haired man.

"Yeah," Spike answered.

The swordsmen unsheathed their blades ceremonially and turned in unison to face their charges. "Any last words?" the taller of the two executors asked. "No bargaining for your lives, no final words of trite heroism?"

Spike glared at the man not believing what he was hearing. "I'm good," he responded cooly.

Vicious' executor turned to him. "And what about you?"

Vicious shot the man a stare that could melt stone. "No."

"As you wish," he responded, and the two continued with the ceremony. After a few elaborate maneuvers of their swords, the two gracefully poised the blades above the men's heads. They glanced over to the table, and waited for Burchelli's sign to strike...

Spike's eyes trailed over to meet Vicious'. Both men looked haggard and uneasy. Vicious's eyes flicked over to the guards lining the walls. Spike followed suit...

Burchelli gave a delicate wave of his hand, signaling that he was ready for the execution to begin. The swordsmen nodded and drew their blades downward...

A metallic burst sounded and Spike was blinded by a white light. Realizing that the was still alive, Spike quickly swung his cuffed wrists under him, and brought them around to the front of him. Procuring a weapon, he glanced behind him to see that the guards lining the wall were providing friendly fire. Some of the men he recognized as his own, and the others at least appeared to be fighting for the same cause. Either way, Spike was happy that if he was going to die it would be fighting...

- - - -

Mao had been at the front desk when he felt a sudden shift of attention turn toward the automatic doors. He turned to see what had caught everyone's attention when he noticed his protégées. Both men were a bandaged bloody mess, yet the pair surprisingly seemed to be in good spirits. The two noticed Mao and furthered their position inside the lobby.

Mao pursed his lips into a line, and shut his eyes in an expression of disapprobation. "Wait for me in my office."

- - - -

"We were never that reckless when we were young. Were we?" Yen lounged back in his chair, and brought his glass of scotch to his lips.

"Nah," Mao said nonchalantly. "Although, remember that one time with Marty?"

"How could I forget?" Yen laughed. He leaned forward. The drunken merriment had vanished from his face as his mind narrowed to a sobering thought. "_He's_ a lot like his father, isn't _he_?"

Mao smiled solemnly. "Yeah," he nodded. "Too bad... what happened..."

"_Women_," Yen sighed, annoyed, trying to brush the thought away.

"Yeah," Mao's lips sloped into a frown.

"How in the _hell_ did those kids manage to escape within an inch of their lives?" Yen asked, trying to digress.

"Phelps."

"The Shark kid?"

"Yeah. Supposedly, Vicious had ordered a team to check him out. A case of misunderstanding led him to believe that Sol had kidnaped Zi."

"Sol _had_ kidnaped Zi."

"Yeah, but the kids checking Phelps out didn't know that. They played along. Apparently, the Sharks and Tigers were going to merge, and Phelps knew about the Burchelli deal. He was so upset that Sol and the Tigers were using Zi as bait that he pulled some strings."

"Ugh, that's interesting."

"Spike and Vicious are damn lucky."

"I'll drink to that," Yen said raising his glass.

Mao shook his head and grinned. "The elders are far from pleased by this."

"I can imagine..."

"I figured I had to _do_ something, so I put the kids on probation."

"All of them?"

"No. Vicious and Spike said they would assume responsibility for what happened. They wouldn't even reveal which of their teammates participated in the farce..."

- - - -

Spike stood outside of the local poolhall... He and Vicious decided to take their men out for drinks and for a game of pool. Well, to be truthful, Spike had somehow managed to convince Vicious into coming. This act may or may not have cost Spike his soul, he forgot which.

The instant Spike crossed the threshold of the bar, he was met with a thick veil of smoke and the pungent smell of alcohol. The odor of spirits was enough to intoxicate a small child, he thought to himself.

"Hey, Spike," one of his men called over to him. "You're late."

"Yeah, well..." he shrugged.

"Hey, you should see the babe Vicious brought with him. Real nice." The man winked as he said it.

Spike responded with a smile and a nod of his head. He had heard some of the guys mention that Vicious had brought a girl to the Burchelli wedding. He wondered if it was the same one.

"Hey, Melissa," he called over to the young waitress.

"Hi, Spike. Watcha need?"

"Well..." he teased.

"You're cute." She inclined her head, and smiled coyly. "But, really."

"The usual," he answered, flashing a boyish smile.

He took a seat at the bar, and turned his attention to the game of pool being played. He saw a few of the newer men standing around the pool table, pool sticks in one hand and a drink in the other. He couldn't see who was up, but he just had a feeling that it was Vicious.

"Here, Spike." Melissa handed him a bottle of beer, and a pool stick.

"Ah, you're a doll."

"Don't forget it." She winked. "Oh, I didn't know Vicious had a girl," she said over her shoulder, vexed.

Spike shrugged in response, and slid off the barstool to his feet. "I have to _see_ this girl." Spike hadn't seen anything remotely female when he had surveyed the group before. He was half expecting the "girl" to be a rottweiler or something when he walked up. He was about to found out how very wrong he was...

"Hey, Spike," Lin called. Spike lifted a brow and joined the man. He turned to face the ongoing game when he saw her... She had turned briefly to see who had join the party. After seeing Spike, she returned her attention back to the game. Spike's lips parted and his eyes widened. He felt as if he had been slugged in the gut as he struggled to breathe.

It was the girl from the orange stand, he was sure. But instead of wearing the chaste attire of a sweater and skirt, she was dressed in a tight-fitting leather ensemble. Her long blonde hair was no longer modestly pulled back in a ponytail. It now cascaded down her back and shoulders, leading one's eyes to the take notice of her many curves. No longer was she the blonde angel he had met a few days ago...she was now playing the part of a temptress.

"That's Vicious' lady friend," Lin informed cheerfully.

Spike just stood dazed and slack-jawed. He couldn't comprehend what the hell had just happened. "Julia...?"


	12. Deathly

**

* * *

Disclaimer:** I do NOT own the rights to _Cowboy Bebop_. 

**Summary: **Chapter 12: After receiving a new assignment, Spike, Vicious, and Julia have a little discussion. PreBebop.

* * *

**Deathly**

"_Now that I've met you  
Would you object to  
Never seeing each other again  
Cause I can't afford to  
Climb aboard you  
No one's got that much ego to spend"_

– Aimee Mann

'_Some truce_,' Spike thought to himself as he lied sprawled on the floor, tangled in Vicious' limbs.

How did Spike land in this current predicament? If he had to pinpoint the reason, it definitely had something to do with Samsara thinking it would be _a good idea_ for the two to test their newfound skills against one another. Lying on the ground, trying to fend off Vicious, who was doing the same to him, Spike wondered if Samsara had foreseen this outcome . . . He found it hard to believe that she _hadn't expected _them to abandon all of their training in exchange for releasing the pent-up hostility they bore toward each other. But how would she know of their disputes? The two were trained separately, and therefore never interacted in front of her. Although, it was entirely possible that Mao had informed her about their "ordeal." Spike, however, didn't think Mao would do such a thing.

Samsara sat cross-legged on the floor. Her once quiet state of meditation had dissolved. Now, with a hand pressed against her face, she wore an expression of disapprobation. Spike caught a glimpse of his martial arts instructor jumping to his feet, prepared to break up the two. He was stayed by a wave of Samsara's hand.

"Draw," she declared, exasperated. The two men momentarily collapsed in exhaustion before peeling themselves off the floor.

"This is how I expected it to end. You disappoint me." Her voice was not as chastising as it was disillusioned. Samsara took to her feet, and grabbed her cane.

"What do you mean?" Admittedly, this was not one of Spike's _better_ moments. But, at the time, he was severely irritated, and in bad need of a release. He liked to win, or at least wanted closure, but there was no closure in a draw. And perhaps, in his own way, he wanted Samsara to provide him that closure.

"What?" she demanded, rather than asked.

"How can you be disappointed if this is _how_ you expected it to end?" Spike spat.

Samsara's features became very sharp and stern. Spike was half-prepared for her to leave the room with his question unanswered. Instead, her expression slowly melted into one of quiet resolution as she contemplated a response.

"It was expected that the fight would end in a draw. It _was not _expected for the match to unravel into chaos. Both of you abandoned your training for – for whatever the hell you thought you were doing," she paused for a moment, thinking that it would be better to expound on just how pitifully stupid her students' actions were. "Instead of keeping your heads, you let anger cloud your judgment. You cannot expect to come out alive in any altercation if you let emotion overtake you. You have to transcend feeling. Instead of letting it take control, you must control it, and use it as the fuel to your benefit. Your actions today? They were _paralyzingly stupid._"

Spike scowled at her response. If anything, he _did_ keep a cool head during a fight. He just didn't know what fighting Vicious had to do with preparing him for syndicate scuffles; they were partners. It wasn't as if they were going to be spending their lives fighting _one another_.

"Why did you _expect_ a draw?" Vicious seemed bothered by the fact that she _assumed_ there would be no clear victor.

This question brought a small smile to Samsara's lips, which looked odd against her otherwise blank face. "The realist and the dreamer – both are in direct conflict with the other. Because of this, they fail to realize that they are one and the same, and cannot exist without the _other_," she replied more so to herself than to them before turning to leave.

Pausing short of the door, Samsara shot the pair a sidelong glance. "Once you can fight each other to _my_ satisfaction, _then _you may be honorably dismissed from my school."

Spike had an antagonizing feeling that he might be stuck in training until death.

- - -

Despite the fact that Spike and Vicious's suspension had long since ended, Mao had been reluctant to give them any new assignments. The two had been stuck in a "syndicate limbo" for close to three months now. This did not bode particularly well with either man, but Spike felt its effects more acutely. So, it came as a surprise to find that Mao had something for them . . .

"Do _what_?" Spike asked.

"Your new target is this man, Jose Gonzales," Carrie Beckinsaw said, flipping the thin electronic notebook over so the two could see Gonzales's picture. Carrie Beckinsaw was Mao's ever perky _personal_ secretary. She had been assigned the task of informing the two of their assignment in Mao's stead. Spike found it odd that he was being briefed by a woman considering the syndicates were run and operated by men. Women, the few there were, worked the legitimate part of the business, and few, if any, crossed into the illegal arena. Carrie was one of the few who even _tinkered_ between the two lines.

"Jose was accused of selling one of the syndicate's more "experimental" drug and its recipe to another syndicate. Industrial espionage is a big no-no, as I'm sure you know. Having been spooked by a few less-than-successful attempts at apprehending him, he's now taken sanctuary at a Catholic monastery on Venus under the identity of Father Paul Simon," she said, referencing the notebook that Mao had prepared.

"Mao expects us to go to Venus to infiltrate a _monastery_?" Spike asked in disbelief. He couldn't imagine _that_ would end well.

Carrie laughed politely. "No, No. Mars is hosting a conference for priests. It is likely that Jose will come back to Mars to collect the rest of his payment for the drug. That is where you come in."

"Wouldn't it be more efficient to hire a sniper for the job?" Vicious questioned.

Carrie glanced down at her instructions, seeing the man's point. "Um, no. Mao specifies that he wants the man brought in _alive_ for questioning. I suppose they want to know who the buyer is, but it doesn't really say. The only other directions he left were that you need to go to Annie's to pick up some supplies, and that's it."

Spike made a face. He liked the idea of being out in the field, and more than welcomed the opportunity. But, Mao not briefing the two personally felt like an affront. "Where _is_ Mao anyway?" the temptation of asking had proven too great for him to resist.

"He and Yen had some business to do out of town. They'll be back early next week if all goes well," she answered. "Um, here are the instructions with the directions to where the conference is being held. Wish you guys luck!" she said, handing Spike the notebook.

Spike and Vicious left the office, and made for the lower level. After exiting the elevator, Spike began in the direction of his station when he spotted Vicious turn the other way after checking his watch.

Annoyed and suspect of his partner's intentions, Spike decided to call him on it. "Where are _you_ going?"

"To lunch," he answered quietly. Spike narrowed his eyes at the response, not sure if he believed the man. "Would you like to join me?" Vicious added.

Spike nearly laughed as he heard the words. Not because going to lunch was particularly humorous, but the way Vicious said it was rather amusing. It sounded as if someone was choking him and the question was the result.

But, never the type to turn down a meal, Spike accepted the offer with a nonchalant, "If you're paying."

The small restaurant, that Vicious had insisted they go, was just a few blocks from HQ. Once the two entered through the diner's glass doors, Spike quickly learned why his partner had been so insistent – Julia. She had been eyeing the entrance from her position in a back booth. Once she spotted the pair, she turned in her seat, and gave a small inconspicious wave.

Julia greeted the two with a smile the moment they neared. She was sitting with her back to the door. Vicious slid into the booth opposite of her, leaving Spike with a decision to make. Deciding that he would rather be damned before he sat next to Julia, Spike slid in beside Vicious. He wasn't stupid. Considering who his partner was, that woman would be nothing but trouble for him . . .

"I'm glad you decided to invite your partner," she noted with approval.

'_Well, that at least explains Vicious' sudden act of kindness,'_ Spike thought to himself.

"Spike, is it?" she asked casually.

He could hardly believe it. This woman could not have been serious. He had saved her life at the fruit stand, and then they had been "formally" introduced at the poolhall. _"All women are liars. You should know that by now,"_ those sage words floated through his head. If she was right, than she must have been the grand master of female liars.

"Yeah. Julia, right?" he replied lowly.

She responded with a smile. "So, Spike, what is it you two _do_ exactly? Vicious refuses to say," she began, feeling a lull in conversation.

'_We kill people for a living,'_ he thought instinctively, but managed to purse his lips together in time to prevent his thoughts from materializing into words. All of a sudden, the idea of killing people lost its appeal as he looked her in the eye. Julia didn't seem the type to find _murder_ an exact turn on; although, she _was_ consorting with a man named "Vicious".

As Spike thought about the question, a few occupations sprang to mind: mechanic, button-man, and the most direct, thug. "We work in_ public relations_," he answered nonchalantly. He had the gnawing feeling that she already knew the answer to her own question.

"What about yourself?" he asked. He leaned back in his seat, trying to appear blase.

"She works at the Blue Note," Vicious answered softly. His head was bowed as he pulled a zippo lighter from his pocket, and lit a cigarette.

"Oh," Spike replied casually, motioning for Vicious to light him up one as well. Vicious obliged before discarding the lighter into a suit pocket. The partners might have had their own personal problems with the other, but they were good at hiding it when it came to people who didn't know better.

"Ever been?" she asked, cocking her head to the side as she watched the two.

Spike didn't like the way she was looking at him. It made him feel uncomfortable. Attempting to combat her probing gaze, he shifted in his seat and put on his best poker face. When he found enough nerve to turn his attention to her, he was met with a knowing grin playing across her lips. _'Out of all the women in the universe, leave it to Vicious to find this one . . .' _he thought bitterly.

"No, heard it was overrated," he replied, taking a drag off his cigarette.

"Well, _that may be_, but the service is pretty good," she retorted with muted playfulness.

'_I'm sure it is, lady,'_ Spike mused sardonically.

"Do you think it's overrated, Vicious?" she asked, turning her attention to the man.

"I think Spike is just being ironic."

"So, how did you two meet?" Spike inquired, annoyed.

"By accident," Julia answered. "I suppose most meetings begin that way. Wasn't your partnership with Vicious incidental?"

Spike found his partnership with Vicious pretty damned _intended_, but made no mention either way. "How long have you two known each other?" Spike asked, sinking back into his seat.

"Since childhood," Vicious responded.

Spike lifted his brows in reply. He was half-shocked, yet part of him found the answer natural since he really couldn't picture Vicious picking up a woman at a bar. But this left him more confused. If the two knew each other since childhood, did that mean that they were just _friends_? Or was there something more? The two didn't seem to carry on with the familiarity of a couple, but Vicious' association with Julia seemed like a recent thing.

Luckily for Spike, his musings were cut short by a waiter prompting them for their order. He wasn't sure what was ordered, nor did he really care. The promise of food was enough to keep him satisfied.

The moment the waiter stepped away, Spike's com-link buzzed. He cut the device off, and glanced down at the ID.

"Who was it?" Vicious asked.

"No one really. Just Dow calling to say that a part for my ship just came in," Spike answered, replacing the communicator.

"You have a ship?" Julia asked, interest lighting her eyes.

Spike perked at the opportunity to gush about his "baby". "Yeah, I've had my MONO racer for five years now. She's a little dated, but flies like a dream."

"A MONO racer? Do you race?" Julia's eyes lit with interest as she cocked her head to the left.

"Back on Earth, I did some work on ships, and raced on the side."

"That sounds exciting," she commented.

"Earth?" Vicious echoed, vexed. "What madness drove you _there_?"

Spike grinned at his partner's astute observation. "It wasn't my decision, trust me. I was sort of just _dumped_ there. Racing is about the only thing that planet is good for – it's a wasteland."

"I can't imagine that your work in _public relations_ requires you to keep a ship. The fees to park it in the city must be astounding," Julia noted.

"At times I think it's more expensive to house and feed her than me," he mused.

"Well then, she does the job of any good woman," she retorted slyly. For a brief instant, both Spike and Julia's eyes met. It was unintentional, and lasted too long for Spike's liking.

"She's just as fickle as a woman," he added dryly before turning his attention to Vicious. "Ever flown, Vicious?" he asked, clearing his throat nervously as he tried to change his focus.

"I went through some crude flight training in the military," he replied.

"I thought you worked ground missions while on Titan," Spike said.

"They put you where they need you," he shrugged.

"That was probably the only good thing about being on Earth – no draft," Spike commented.

"Earth's ambivalence toward the war on Titan seems almost ironic, given the planet's history," Julia noted. "They participated in name only."

"That's only because the politically elite leached onto Mars and Venus after rendering Earth nearly uninhabitable. Parasites," Vicious replied.

"Do we still have troops on Titan?" Spike honestly could have cared less if Mars was still involved or not, it just seemed like the most logical question to ask.

"Yes," Julia, to both men's surprise, answered. "Both Mars and Venus keep men stationed there. They say it's done more as a 'reminder'; however, the election of the new Chancellor seems be causing some friction."

"I never understood why we bothered with Titan to begin with. If possible, it's a bigger waste of space than Earth," Spike added, nonchalantly.

"I think our involvement had something to do with a high profile assassination of a government leader, and the Titan government's unwillingness to join the Intergalactic Entente. Throw in a precious stone with medicinal properties that can only be found on Titan, and the government's reluctance to sell it, and you get the makings of a war," Vicious responded impassively.

"What _'medicinal properties'_ does Titan opal have?" Spike made a face, and glanced over at Vicious as if the man had lost his mind.

"The _kind_ that keeps the syndicates happy," he responded with a smug grin.

Spike gave a half-smile in turn. He figured the syndicates had some hand to play in that war. It wasn't shortly after that, the waiter returned to the table with food in tow. He set a plate full of steamed dumplings in front of Julia, a plate of steamed fish in front of Vicious, and the Peking duck in front of Spike.

Julia had just taken chopsticks in hand when her cell went off. She instinctively hit the "silence" button, and glanced down to see who was calling. Returning her attention back to the two men, who were now staring at her, she gave a small smile. "I need to take this," she responded, politely excusing herself.

Once Julia had seemingly disappeared, Spike glanced over at Vicious, who shot him a, "get off of me, you're too close" stare. This prompted Spike to slide into the booth Julia had previously been occupying.

"What are we gonna do about this new assignment?" he asked, reaching into his trenchcoat and pulling out the thin electronic notebook. He set the device on the table in front of Vicious, who moved his plate aside to accommodate the notebook. Vicious fished in his suit pocket for his cell. Once he withdrew it, he connected the cell to the notebook and began uploading the notebook's contents into it. The upload took roughly five seconds, and afterwards Vicious began perusing the data.

"The convention is two days from now. It's being held at the Regency. I presume Gonzales is going to want to arrive early, and leave quickly so as to avoid any unwanted attention."

"Any estimation on the earliest arrival?"

"Tomorrow, it seems."

"Any info on the building's layout?" Spike inquired, leaning over the table to look at the notebook.

"No. The Regency is on the west-side of Mars, which means . . ."

"It's not territorial, at least," Spike commented offhandedly.

"True, but that means we'll have to do some digging to find the building's blueprints."

"That won't be too hard. Anything else?"

Vicious shook his head. "Other than dropping by Annie's in the morning to pick up whatever supplies Mao deemed appropriate." He swiftly shut the notebook, slid it back over to Spike, and stuffed his cell into a pocket.

Reading his partner's actions well, Spike turned to see that Julia was on her way back to the table. "Our truce still stands, right?" Spike asked wryly.

Vicious grinned. "_Perhaps_," he responded cryptically.


	13. Games Without Frontiers

**

* * *

Disclaimer:** I do NOT own the rights to _Cowboy Bebop._

**Summary:** A calculated risk may jeopardize the threesome's friendship.

* * *

**Games Without Frontiers **

_"If looks could kill they probably will  
In games without frontiers -- war without tears"_

– Peter Gabriel

"About last night," Spike began slowly.

The two were sitting inside the lobby of Mao's office. Mao had returned from his trip early, and wanted an update on the two's progress concerning Gonzales. Neither Spike nor Vicious was in a talking mood, and it had nothing and everything to do with the assignment. By syndicate standards, the mission was a success. There, however, had been a few "bumpy" moments, but one in particular might have cost Vicious more than he intended . . .

Vicious sat in quiet thought with his index finger pressed against his bottom lip. As he thought back on the previous night, it all began to sink in . . .

"About last night . . ." Spike began again.

"There is nothing more to say." Vicious gracefully took to his feet the moment he saw Mao's office door crack open.

Two short men dressed in suits emerged from the office with Mao seeing them to the door. The two "clients" glanced over at Spike and Vicious and shot the partners a smile before exiting the lobby. Mao, still standing in the office doorway, signaled Spike and Vicious to enter.

Spike was the first inside, and once Vicious had entered, Mao shut the door. When the three were seated, both Spike and Vicious turned their attention to Mao. Neither man was sure what kind of mood their mentor was in judging from his impassive expression.

"I read your reports," Mao stated dryly, taking the papers in hand and clanking them against the desk to straighten them. "The appropriate measures have been taken concerning the Tigers' interest in _our_ drugs. However, the directions specified that you bring Gonzales in _alive_."

"There was some _improvisation_," Spike quickly responded.

"Um," he hummed, clearing his throat. "There seems to be a lot of _improvisation_ regarding the two of you lately. Explain, if you don't mind. I am particularly interested in the Tiger operative you met in Gonzales' stead, and then subsequently killed. There was some nameless girl involved as well, if I remember correctly . . ."

Vicious straightened in his chair at the last part, and shot Spike a rueful glare. The _"girl"_ in question was the only part of the evening he regretted, and he had made sure to conveniently "forget" about her in his report. Spike, obviously, had not.

"_Spike_," Vicious growled under his breath, "perhaps you would like to take that _one_?"

Spike suppressed a grin as he glanced at his partner. He turned his gaze to Mao, and casually slouched in his seat. "The Sharks and Tigers haven't reconciled, so the Sharks were interested in the drugs as well. It seems that Gonzales was going to deliver the recipe in exchange for the rest of his payment, and the Sharks wanted to intercept him."

"Where are you going with this, Spike?" Mao asked softly.

"Gonzales was killed in the crossfire between us and some Sharks," he responded as a sly smile stretched across his face.

"What about your meeting with the Tiger?"

"We found out where Gonzales was going to make the transaction. With a little _encouragement_ the operative told us what we needed."

"And you killed him. So what about this illusive girl?"

Vicious responded with a sour expression. His eyes trailed to the floor as the question lingered in the air.

Noticing Vicious' reaction, Mao smiled to himself. "Vicious?"

Vicious' lips tightened before he set his eyes on his mentor. "We used her as a driver."

"What was wrong with the driver you used to get to the restaurant?" Mao asked.

"We didn't have one. We walked to the rendezvous point so as not to cause any commotion. The one we summoned was late, and we needed a car to dispose of the body. She was convenient." His jaw was clamped down as he gave his reply.

Mao nodded his head. "Is she to be trusted?" His question scrutinizing, and both Spike and Vicious knew if they answered negative then the girl was as good as dead.

"Yes," Vicious hissed.

"Does she have a _name_?"

"Julia, you met her –"

"Oh, yes. I remember Julia. She's a hard girl to forget." Mao paused in thought. "Don't ever do that again," he finally said, eyeing both Spike and Vicious. "We involve no one outside of this syndicate . . ."

- - - -

"I can't believe her reaction," Spike said, mulling over the previous night's events to a very disinterested Annie. "You would have thought that we'd wanted her to kill –"

"Shh," she hissed, glancing around to ensure they were alone. Panning the store to see that they were indeed by themselves, she motioned for him to continue.

"We didn't ask her to kill the guy."

"Well, Spike, I'm sure you'll be hard-pressed to find many women who are delighted by the prospect of driving a dead body through downtown Mars while being pursued by cops and rival syndicates."

"What about you? You . . ."

"Don't _even_ finish that sentence. I wasn't asked to do what she did," she stated matter-of-factly.

"You would do it if we asked. _Wouldn't you?"_

Annie's expression soured as she looked the kid over. "Sometimes you act like a teen, you know it?"

"I'm _not_ a teen," he corrected nonchalantly.

She pursed her lips. "You're a boy. They mature slower."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I chose this life. I grew up in this life. I understand the rules. I know if Mao oversteps his boundaries, I'm dead. I knew when I married my husband that if he had overstepped his boundaries, I would have been killed. It's different." Noticing Spike readying his lips, she cut him off, "And I don't deal with D.B.s."

Spike sighed and shook his head. "No, you just deal the arms that make the people _dead_."

"Maybe, but I don't have to haul their lifeless bodies around Tharsis City now do I?" She leaned back in her chair and cocked her head, noting Spike's unsatisfied visage. Feeling a lull, she added, "I suppose this has something to do with you and Vicious."

Spike made a face. "What makes you ask that?"

"You wouldn't be in here otherwise. Julia is his girl, not yours."

Spike grimaced at her observation – that Julia _belonged_ to Vicious. "Well, she's not anymore," he snapped.

Annie smiled at the boy's touchiness. "What happened? Was this not Vicious' idea?"

Spike glanced down, and right on cue a small half-grin thinned his lips. "No. It was my idea." He looked up at her.

She could have laughed, and did. "I don't know which is funnier: that you thought _that_ was a good plan, or that Vicious willingly followed along."

Spike gave a silent chuckle, and then ran his fingers through his hair. "He just took it. I can't believe he just stood there and took it . . ."

"Took what? Your asinine plan or . . ."

"Julia. She was so _mad_, and he just took it. He didn't say a word."

Annie cocked her head in response. She didn't figure Vicious to be the "abusive" type, yet she couldn't picture him just standing there dumbfounded. It seemed odd to her. Perhaps the kid _really_ didn't know what to do with a hysterical woman – or at least, a betrayed woman.

"Then, when we were debriefed by Mao, when Mao brought her up, you should have seen Vicious. Supposedly, he didn't even document her in his report."

Annie furrowed her brow. "That's odd as rigid as that kid is."

"But I don't get it," Spike said, brows lowered in thought. "It's not like he's been trying to hide her or shield her from the Dragons, or at least the people involved. Mao knows who she is. It's not like he's trying to protect her in case something happens to him and they decide to go after her."

"He's just caught on."

"What?" Spike asked.

"All of the leaders have or had wives. Wives make a man look stable – committed. Wives are often seen as no more than a possession or a trophy. And Julia is a very pretty piece."

Spike glanced down at the floor, unconvinced. "_You_ got married to a syndicate man," he shot, looking up at her wryly.

Annie's eyes narrowed at the insinuation. "I'll remember you said that the next time you come to me for more ammo . . ."


	14. Lover I Don't Have to Love

**Lover I Don't Have to Love**

_But you, but you _

_You write such pretty words _

_But life's no storybook _

_Love's an excuse to get hurt_

_And to hurt_

_Do you like to hurt? _

_I do, I do_

-- Brighteyes

A gentle breeze caught the striped ribbon dangling from Julia's hat. She swept the ribbon out of her face as she stood examining one very large steed. Julia was watching as one of the grooms brushed the thoroughbred's red fur down with a curry comb.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Ang asked. Lee Ang was the proud owner of Le Comte de Monte Cristo, and Julia was his latest paramour.

Nervously tucking a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear, Julia managed a smile in reply. She wasn't sure how long her fling with Ang was going to last… Ang was known to be rather capricious when it came to lovers; however, his capriciousness was probably due to the fact that he was married to the ever jealous Stephanie Gonaire, the heiress to the InTeq software company. Julia had met Ang at Bed, one of the Martian clubs. It was mere happenstance and Julia didn't think – or rather hoped – anything more would come from their little tryst. Ang wasn't known as the most reputable character around the district, having both syndicate and mafia leanings.

Bracing herself for the oncoming wind and the wave of attention she was receiving from Ang, Julia folded her arms protectively against her chest. Somewhere, somehow, she had become completely undone, she mused. Her split from Vicious had been little more than a month ago, and already she was gallivanting around with a man just as criminal.

"He's very lovely," she answered half-heartedly, turning her gaze to the slew of oncoming workers.

"Well, I think the race is about to begin," Ang noted, lending Julia his arm.

"Isn't Le Comte being raced?"

"No, the only horse I have in the race is Hugo," he said with a chuckle. "Le Comte is here merely for business purposes…"

Julia's gaze lifted to her partner's face. She searched his eyes in an attempt to determine his meaning. She was used to veiled comments by now, and had developed a sixth sense at detecting them.

Her expression, however, must have appeared panic-stricken for it elicited a chuckle from Ang. "Don't worry, love," he said soothingly. He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them. "I'm just selling him. That's all. Don't tell me that you've already become so attached?"

Julia scoffed at the accusation. She had lived in the city her whole life and knew nothing of large herbivores and their strange habits. "No, no!" She laughed at the thought, throwing her head back sensuously. "Whatever would _I_ do with a _horse_?"

"Ride him, of course! Although, there are far better animals to ride in Tharsis," he added. A sly glint lit his brown eyes.

Julia chuckled and drew close beside him. She could feel the softness of his designer suit pressed against her bare skin. "Really? Perhaps you could elaborate a bit more on that last part…"

Ang's lips curved upwards at the challenge…

----

"It's hot," Spike moaned.

"Blame the folks at command central controlling the weather," Vicious retorted as he pressed a pair of binoculars to his face.

"Horse racing…" Spike was trying to think of something disparaging to add, but the heat was fucking with his neurons.

"The 'Sport of Kings'," Vicious added, lowering the binoculars.

"That wasn't the effect I was going for," Spike stated, bitterly.

A small grin thinned Vicious's lips. "I know."

"Bastard," Spike said, half-amused. "Did you place a bet?" He casually stuffed his hands in his pant pockets as he scanned the throng of people in the stands. Everyone was dressed in summery attire; woman donned large floppy hats and pastel colored sundresses, while men stuck to button down shirts and khaki pants. Spike was, as usual, dressed inappropriately for the occasion in his t-shirt and jeans. Vicious, however, was dressed down for a change in a white polo and a pair of blue dress pants.

"Hugo. I thought it was appropriate."

Spike couldn't repress the grin creeping across his face at his partner's words. "I figured you would."

"And you?" Vicious was once again looking through the binoculars, searching…

"Mad Housewife," he answered nonchalantly.

For that, Vicious glanced over at Spike with narrowed eyes and lowered brows. He looked like he wanted to say something in reply, but merely inhaled and returned to his endeavor of scanning the crowed.

"I liked the name, and the numbers weren't bad."

"Bet to win, to place, or to show?" Vicious asked distantly. Spike could tell Vicious could care less either way and was only talking to keep up the appearance of normalcy.

"To win." Spike scoffed at the implication that he would choose otherwise. "And you?"

Vicious shot him a sly over-the-shoulder stare and grinned. Spike lifted a brow in response. Of course Vicious would do no less either: All or nothing, baby…

Vicious instinctively straightened, his attention still glued to the stands. His sudden change in posture alerted Spike to the fact that his partner had seen something. "Did you find 'em?" Spike asked, reaching for the binoculars Vicious was reluctantly handing him.

"Inside the Jockey's Club. Third pane to the right."

Spike quickly adjusted the binoculars with the controls on the sides and raised them to the boxes. '_Bingo,'_ he thought to himself. _'This is going to be good,'_ he mused, zooming in a little more. Caught in his focus was a tall lean man in his late 30s. He was dressed in a nice designer suit and was mingling with some of the other racehorse owners. Dangling from the man's arm was his latest "accessory", a tall, beautiful, blonde. Spike swallowed hard, his muscles tensed, and his heart began beating wildly in his chest. 'Julia?' he thought to himself, stunned.

He refined the focus on the binoculars to double check. He was right. It was Julia. Instantly, Spike lowered the binoculars. "It seems we have some familiar company for this one, eh?" He turned to his partner to find himself alone. "I bet…"

Spike sighed as he looked the crowd over before attempting to wade through the throng of people. "You know, killing Ang isn't part of the plan," he informed lowly into his communicator.

"I know," came the cold response from Vicious.

"Where are you?"

"Going to the Club."

Spike pulled his communicator away from his mouth and stared into the receiver confused. "What the hell?" he protested. "Why? You'll never get in."

"See you there."

"Could you…" Spike wanted desperately to finish what he was saying, but he heard the line go dead in his hands. "Fuck it!" he sighed, jogging toward the entrance.

-----

"I'm not for this," Spike growled miserably.

Vicious did the last clasp on the red waiter's vest he was now donning. "Really? I couldn't tell," he murmured in a rare moment of sarcasm.

"Yanno, this is _never_ going to work. Julia's out there. Don't ya think she'll get a little suspicious when she sees us?"

Vicious brushed off the vest as he listened to Spike's ranting before turning calmly to address his partner. "That is why _you_ will be her waiter."

"What? No way, man!"

"It's the most prudent choice."

"Oh, really? How are you _so_ certain?"

Vicious's eyes narrowed and his demeanor grew chilly. "She knows me too well."

The corners of Spike's lips sloped into a frown. He seriously doubted that Vicious allowed _anyone_ to get close enough to him to know him "too well."

"And what about me? 'So, Spike things must not be working out well at the Red Dragons…' Yeah, _that_ won't blow our cover or anything… no, not at all…"

Vicious ignored him as he pushed open the double doors. "Here's the order pad. You might need this," he said, tossing the pad at Spike.

"Where are you going?"

"To prep the banquet room."

"What's so special about the banquet room?"

Vicious continued out of the darkened closet, only turning to shoot a passing stare at the two tied and unconscious waiters slumped in the corner of the closet. Spike lowered his brow, reluctant to follow Vicious.

"What about the banquet room is so important?"

Vicious gave him a sidelong glance. "Contact me over the communicator if you find out anything."

Spike grimaced as he watched his partner disappear through the restaurant. _'Yeah, I'll just do that…'_ he thought bitterly before nimbly swiping a platter full of drinks. Dark eyes scanned the crowded restaurant before he spotted Julia sitting with a group of couples, Ang included.

_'I'm a waiter. __A credible waiter.__ Yeah, right, whatever,' _his thoughts rambled as he made the journey over to the party.

"Oh, good! A waiter is _finally_ here to get our orders. I was beginning to think we had been forgotten entirely," said an elderly lady dressed in a pastel flower-printed dress suit.

Spike managed to look friendly, and by "friendly" he managed to resist the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. Making a quick glance down at the table, it was apparent the party of eight had yet to get their drinks. Spike frantically began to think back on all the times he had been to a five-star restaurant – he came up with zilch. _'Okay, so restaurants where you don't serve yourself and the menu consists of more than just peanuts and beer… what do the waiters say__, again__?'_

"May I take your drink orders?" he said, impressed that the first words out of his mouth weren't, 'How may I help you?'

Disinterested, and trying not to look at Julia or call attention to himself, Spike kept his gaze to his pad. As he was taking the orders, he was suddenly reminded _why_ he had gone into the syndicate instead of getting a normal skill appropriate job. "Two ice teas, one bourbon on the rocks, one glass of Merlot, one dirty martini, and two waters. Is that it?"

"No," it was Ang, and Spike had no choice but to look the man squarely in the eyes as soon as he spoke. "Julia, you've yet to give your order."

Spike tensed as his attention unwittingly turned to her. She was just as beautiful as ever dressed in a pink sundress with a pair of oversized brown sunglasses perched high on her head. Recognition lit her eyes as she looked at him, dumbfounded.

_'__Dammit__!'_ Spike's thoughts screamed as their eyes met. "Your order, ma'am?"

She nearly laughed at his politeness. Instead, she decided to muffle her whimper with her napkin and feigned a cough. "I'm sorry. It's just… I think we know each other, _Dave_." She squinted as she read the "name" off the silver tag pinned to his vest.

"You know what, hon, I think I remember him from somewhere, too," Ang said, placing his index finger to his chin in thought. "I can't remember where from, though."

Spike's blood ran icy. He had run into Ang during a gun fight when Ang was on the way up in the White Tigers. With thoughts racing, Spike flashed one of his patented boyish grins. "I get that a lot."

Julia lifted a brow. "Water with lemon," she stated clearly. She wanted to be sober for whatever the hell it was Spike and his "partner" were up to…

In an amazing feat of actually figuring out what in the hell he was supposed to be doing and going, Spike discarded the platter filled with drinks he had previously been touting around for one that he could use. "Here are your drinks. Are you ready to order?"

"Yes," Ang stated firmly, "we all are. There will be one slight deviation, however."

"What is that?"

"The men at this table will be leaving their beautiful ladies shortly to take their dinner in banquet hall A."

Spike lifted a brow, suspiciously pondering how Vicious knew. Perhaps one of the waiters squealed before he had gotten there? He brushed the thought away, and began writing down the orders. After he went to call in the orders, Spike turned to find himself confronted by Julia. Her head was cocked suspiciously, and her eyes were narrowed.

He smiled, mindlessly, and placed a nervous hand against the back of his neck. "Hiya."

"What are you doing here?"

The boyish grin wasn't working… "Turning over a new leaf."

She scoffed at the insinuation. "You're telling me you left your _other_ job to wait tables at the Derby?"

"I think that's what I just said."

Julia still did not look convinced. She placed her hands firmly on her hips as her piercing blue eyes scanned his features. It felt like she was looking right through him – like he was water. "Where's Vicious?" The question was as quick and as sharp as a blade and was meant with as much animosity.

"I have no idea what you mean." He quickly turned to busy himself with the order that was coming out of the kitchen.

"Don't play dumb," she stated sternly. "This has something to do with Ang, doesn't it?"

Spike licked his bottom lip before facing her. He leaned in, quickly closing the space between them; his mismatched brown eyes were boring into her blue. Julia did not even bat an eye as she looked over his stoic features.

"Why are you so bent on hanging out with men you can never trust?"

"I don't know what you mean." She did as he predicted: she feigned innocence…

"Ang. Why did you ask if my being here, knowing full and well what you were implying, had something to do with him?"

She pressed her top lip to her bottom one, deciding to ignore his question. "Well, are you?"

"Why do you even ask?" he questioned, straightening his posture. Again, space divided the two.

She shook her head. "Why are you here, then? As my waiter no less?"

Silence fell heavily between them as Spike loaded a spare cart with food for the women. The plates for the men had already been loaded and taken, presumably to the banquet room.

"He's just here to make a simple transaction," she said, coming clean.

"And what do you think that transaction is, Julia?" He overly enunciated her name, implying that he was growing tired of her "innocent" act.

"A horse – Le Comte de Monte Cristo. He's selling a horse. You can't tell me there is something sinister about that," her voice was flat, almost muffled as she turned to eye her table to see if her absence was becoming noticeably long. "Ang and those men went to the banquet room to finalize the deal."

Spike froze. His eyes widened as his thoughts raced. Vicious and he had been instructed to go to the Derby to intercept a drug shipment the White Tigers had intercepted from them. They were there to get their own drugs back – not to pick up a horse. Mao, for once, had been very specific about his orders…

Spike turned to Julia, looking at her questionly. "Are you sure 'horse' isn't just some code word or something?"

"No, I saw Le Comte. He's located in the front row of the stables," she said, shaking her head for added effect. "Listen, Spike, I cut ties with Vicious because I refused to be pulled into this business..."

Spike furrowed his brows, trying to curb the itching he had to reach for his communicator to inform his _partner_ of the new developments. But, he had a lunch to serve. He quickly gestured for her to go back to her table. "Listen, Julia, I said I had turned a new leaf. I have no interest in Ang's business."

She arched a brow, suspect of his motives. "I may be a lot of things, Spike, but I'm not dumb."

He clenched his jaws. "Go, sit, and stay out of Ang's way."

She readied her mouth for speech, but thought better of it. Instead, she turned on her heels and went back to her table.

Spike watched to make sure he was out of eyeshot and earshot of any onlookers before typing a message to Vicious. He then grabbed hold of the cart and wheeled it to the ladies. If he was going to flee to the stables, he was going to have to try to do so without arousing any suspicion. Lee Ang was in deep with the Tigers, and he was sure that someone that high up had lackeys constantly monitoring him and his "friends".

-----

Waiting on anyone, powerful or not, was starting to wear thin on Vicious's nerves. Apparently, the man whose identity and attire he had stolen was a bonafide White Tiger bodyguard. So, Vicious's plan of sticking a bug in one of the vases, serving lunch, and leaving had been dashed. He was now standing at attention in a line of Tiger lackeys. And, to top it off, Ang had been called aside by one of his men to talk quietly in a corner – the meeting had yet to begin proper.

Vicious watched Ang and his two lackeys with the intensity of a starved eagle eyeing his prey. There was something about the way the three men were conversing, their body language, and the strange habit of one of the lackeys to keep glancing over at Vicious, that did not bode well for him. Had something happened that he was not aware of? Had Spike managed to fuck something up and had yet to inform him of it? The moment the latter thought entered his conscious, Vicious felt the communicator in his pocket begin to silently vibrate. Two sharp vibrations alerted him to the fact that his partner had sent him a written message. He repressed the urge to check it. To do so now would be a fool's folly. Instead, Vicious straightened his back, pressed his arms firmly against his sides, and tried his best to look subservient. The "subservient" part he was sure he was failing at.

Ang straightened his posture and turned to join his partners in business. His features appeared sharp, cold and irritated. He shot a passing stare at his line of body guards before sitting himself at the head of the long rectangular table. His expression of annoyance quickly dissipated into delight as addressed his business partners. "I apologize for the delay. It seems I have quite a _rat_ infestation at one of my stables, and had to nip it in the bud. You know how that goes?" His lunch companions nodded in agreement. Vicious, however, stiffened at the reference.

Ang smiled and took a few bites of his meal before turning his attention to the contract stationed beside his plate. He looked the document over; happy with the terms, he signed it. Afterward, he directed his attention to the buyer seated at the other end of the table. "I do hope you enjoy your product."

The man, a chubby 40-something drug cartel from Ganymede, wiggled his fingers in anticipation to finalize the deal. Once Ang was finished with the contract, one of the cartel's men took the contract from Ang and handed it to his boss.

"I am so happy that we could do business together," the cartel's voice was overjoyed as he looked the paperwork over. He took a sip of his wine and another bite of his beef wellington before readying his pen over the document. Greedily, he began scribbling in the requisite information.

It took approximately thirty minutes for the whole thing to come to end. And when it did, Ang stood, one hand pressed against his charcoal grey vest, and the other extended in friendship. "I hope our organizations can continue to do business together," he stated in a sanguine tone.

"I do as well. Where may I pick up the _product_?"

"The 'horse' should be already loaded and ready to be received in the front by the time you get there. I hope you have a nice day and thank-you very much."

Both men bowed, and on cue, two of Ang's employees opened the large double doors for the cartel and his entourage. Once the "guests" had exited the room, Ang's men quickly shut the doors and the mood in the room grew violent.

"Men, I would like all of us to welcome the rat we have in our midst."

Vicious managed to keep his expression lifeless despite the rush of adrenaline that was now pumping through his body. _'How did they figure it out?'_ this thought kept repeating over and over in a never-ending loop in his head as Ang glanced the guards over. Clearly, he did not know his own men very well if he could not detect the absence of one of them, Vicious noted to himself. This was a mistake Vicious vowed to never make once he ascended to power. He would make sure to know the names and faces of each of his underlings in order to avoid such a circumstance. However, all the vows in the world could not get him out of this mess. Right now he was trapped. To act when so vastly outnumbered armed with only his Colt would be a fool's errand.

"Get the girl…" Ang ordered gruffly to one of his men as he neared Vicious's position on the floor.

Vicious's heart stopped. _'Julia,'_ his mind screamed. He tried to repress any sign of shock as Ang stopped in front of him and looked him over. Ang smiled grimly at the man's cold defiance which he wore so naturally.

"Umm," Ang hummed as his eyes hungrily inspected every inch of Vicious from head to toe. "I would have remembered if I had hired _you _into my ranks, _Vern_," he said scrutinizing Vicious's nameplate pinned to his vest.

"Julia," one of the lackeys alerted Ang as he roughly escorted her into the room.

"Hans, your exuberance pleases me, but, please, don't treat my woman so harshly."

Julia's expression remained impassive despite Ang's dig at her belonging to him. "Lee, what is this about?" she questioned, innocently.

"Julia. My lovely, Julia. My lovely, treacherous, Julia."

"What are you talking about?" her voice sharpened defensively.

Ang expelled a hoarse chuckle. "I really have to thank you, Julia. Without your observation, I would have never even noticed that waiter who was serving us… 'Dave' was it?" he asked, rhetorically. "Well, that's beside the point, because, as I said, I knew I recognized him from somewhere so I had one of my men run a check on him. You wouldn't believe the kind of data I can obtain in my position. You see, Julia, I am a _very_ powerful and dangerous man. I think you like _dangerous_ men, Julia. Perhaps, that's why you knew who Spike was in the first place."

Julia lifted her head defiantly. Her jaw tightened and her features narrowed, unimpressed.

"Or perhaps, you knew Spike some _other_ way. You see, Julia, how I came to know Spike is not a very pleasant tale. He works for an _organization_ that is very much against my own – we work for rival companies, so-to-speak."

"Why are you telling me all of this, Lee?" she asked listlessly.

"Because, I am contemplating whether or not to kill you, my dear."

A corner of her mouth turned upwards in a half-grin.

"I thought that might interest you, Julia. Now, I know Spike works with a partner. A partner that is here in this room, no less. I also know you know the man I am talking about."

"You're being silly, Lee. Just because I know Spike in passing does not mean I know who his partner is."

"Oh, but this is where you are wrong, Julia. You know his partner _much_ better than you know Spike. And, I want you to point out the spy in this room."

"Why would I do such a thing?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Because, I am really doubting your loyalty to me, Julia, and I know about your little tête-à-tête with Spike."

Her face remained unchanged by his revelation. If there was anything she had learned from Vicious, it was to hold your cards close to the vest. "And, if I do so – if I select some man in this room, how will you know I chose the correct one?"

Ang cocked his head, amused by her question. "Because, Julia, you see this hand of mine?" he said, lifting his right hand. "It is a prosthetic," he admitted, and to further his point, Ang detached the hand from his wrist. "You know who did this to me, Julia? Well, do you? I would never forget the man who did this to me, nor any member of his group of thugs… And Spike's partner was among that group of thugs."

Julia lifted a brow. "So, if I finger the guy who you _think_ was involved in some hit years ago and who you _think_ may be in this room, I get out of here with my skin intact?"

"Yes, my dear, that is it."

"What happens to the man I select?"

"I would be a very unfair businessman if I allowed him to share a fate dissimilar to that of his companion, Spike. Spike's little adventure into the stables _will be_ short lived… as will this spy's life."

Julia pursed her lips as she briefly scanned the room full of men before rolling her eyes.

"What is it?"

Julia fixed her gaze on Vicious, yet remained unmoved – motionless.

"Do you see something you like?" he asked, shoving Vicious forward. "Or do you see the spy?"

Her blue eyes became lifeless, shark-like almost, as she stared into the face of her former friend.

"Is this him?"

Julia did not answer. Instead, she slowly slid her large sunglasses down from her head and set them on the brim of her nose. "Yes, that is him. But, you already knew that…"


	15. I Turn My Camera On

**I Turn My Camera On**

_"The way I'm slipping away_

_I turn my feelings off_

_Y'made me untouchable for life_

_And you wasn't polite"_

– Spoon

Spike made it across the green and to the stables in roughly ten minutes. With a little quick thinking and a little luck, he fell into the rhythm of things.

"Hey, you!" came a distant voice.

Spike straightened, figuring the voice was directed at him. Casually, he turned to face the direction from where the voice had come. "Yo," he muttered lowly, smoothly.

"You here to load up Big Red o'er there?" The voice had a possessor – a round burly man whose girth was only outmatched by his height.

_Big Red?_ Spike thought to himself, confused. Perhaps he should have asked Julia for a description of the beast? _Too late, now_, he mused.

"Yeah," Spike replied, glancing around the corner to see three suits standing near a stall. Upon closer inspection, his initial conclusion about the three was confirmed when he noticed the outline of a gun under each man's black jacket. _Tiger lackeys, _he thought to himself.

"_'Yeah'?_" the burly man mocked. "_'Yeah?'_ Well, then, halter the damn thing and help get him into the trailer."

Spike lifted a brow as he thought the situation over. What in the world could a syndicate want with a horse? His mind had been scrutinizing the question for the last twenty minutes to no avail. Now, he was confronted with a greater problem: How in the hell was _he_ going to apprehend the animal? A quick survey of his surroundings led him to note the large horse trailer connected to a red truck. Obviously, the horse went inside, and then was trailered to its specified destination. But, making a getaway with a horse trailer was something, Spike had to admit, he had _never_ done before… He could only imagine the look on Mao's face when they brought him this _thing_ in the drugs' stead.

Spike snapped out of his musings to stare blankly at the word "halter". "Halter?" he echoed.

The man rolled his eyes and chunked a leather _thing_ at Spike. Spike immediately nabbed out it of the air and held it in front of him for inspection. "Sure," he said, moving toward Le Comte's stall. He had not the foggiest of ideas how to "halter" a horse, but figured what he didn't know he could surely improv.

Once in front of Le Comte's stall, Spike gave an over-the-shoulder glance at the three Tiger lackeys. They all tensed when they saw him rolling the stall door back. "Hey!" one of them snapped. "Are you here to load the product?"

Spike entered the horse's domain and immediately glanced down at the scrap of leather slung over his arm. He had heard the lackey's question, but, for the time being, chose to ignore it. He had more pressing matters at hand – namely, how to _halter_ horse.

_I suppose this thing is supposed to go on his head… __But, how?_ Spike mused, fiddling with the leather contraption. A few seconds of fiddling with the halter finally yielded satisfactory results, and Spike inched closer to the horse. He instinctively moved to the side of the animal with his arms extended out in front of him. Slowly, he brought the halter in front of the horse's face.

Le Comte appeared massive from where Spike was standing. He had a clear advantage over Spike in terms of weight, strength, and height. But, there was something off about the animal – his head was bowed low and his eyes were glazed over. He appeared drugged. At this observation, Spike lifted a brow. _Why drug him? Is he that impossible to handle?_ he thought to himself as he proceeded to fit the halter on the horse's head.

Surprised, and somewhat pleased with himself, Spike belted the headband behind the horse's ears and grabbed the lead rope firmly in his hands. The horse didn't budge as he tried to pull him along. "C'mon," he grunted lowly, afraid that one of the Tigers would notice his trouble. The horse slowly began to follow him out of the stall – each step was slow and shaky.

"I can't believe how simple this was." Spike heard the youngest of the three Tigers say as he was muscling the horse into the trailer. "To use a horse as a mule was an ingenious idea!"

Spike stiffened at the word "mule". _A what?_ His eyes locked on Le Comte. _How in the hell?_ He shook his head. _I don't want to know_, he thought from deep inside the trailer.

"Hey, guys, I'm here to trailer Le Comte. Sorry I was late," an unpleasantly cheerful voice called from outside.

Spike grimaced at the new development. Quickly, he slung the lead rope over something nearby and tried to press past the horse in order to get out.

"What?" He could hear one of the lackeys cry.

"But… then… who is that in the horse trailer?" another, less astute, lackey observed.

_I knew this wasn't going to be easy. _Spike sighed, wiggling his foot slightly to feel for his ankle holster. Glad that he had thought to arm himself, he readied himself for the lackeys.

"You," the tallest of the three growled, brandishing his Walther PPK, "who the fuck are you, then?"

Spike placed a nervous hand against the back of his neck and feigned innocence. "Just a nice guy?"

"Put your fucking hands up!"

Spike smiled wolfishly at the prospect. "I _really_ don't think you want to do this."

"Oh, yeah?" the youngest said, interrupted by a beep from his PDA. He immediately glanced up at Spike – fear glazing his eyes. "You're Spike Spiegel?" As soon as the words left the youngster's mouth, all three lackeys were now fixing their weapons on Spike…

----

Julia had barely gotten the words out of her mouth when Vicious began his mode of attack. He had used the reflection cast in her sunglasses to his benefit, and quickly seized Ang by the throat. Vicious slid his hand under the man's suit jacket and plucked Ang's handgun from its holster. Using Ang only a moment longer for cover so he could retrieve his Colt, Vicious tossed Ang's Glock to Julia to use for protection before discarding the Tiger caporegime. Immediately, he fired a few shots, downing two nearby men, before grabbing Julia by the hand and ducking out of the door.

The gunfight spilt into the dining room as Vicious turned to nail two lackeys in the head before toppling a table over and shoving Julia behind it. Julia was still clutching the Glock and shaking. Her large blue eyes took in everything as she watched patrons flee, screaming. A few unlucky bystanders fell prey to the crossfire. Her heart drummed heavily in her chest – so heavily, in fact, that she could feel her pulse beating in her neck.

Managing to collect herself, Julia peered around the corner of the toppled table. For the most part she had been blind to the onslaught of Tigers, only seeing the aftermath of the rain of bullets. She scanned the room quickly to see a lackey sneaking around a corner. Unsure of herself, she aimed her gun and fired. The shot, much to her horror and amazement, was good, sending the man flying backwards, dead, into a wall. Soon afterwards, Vicious took refuge behind the table. Quickly plotting an escape route, he grabbed her right hand and pulled her along.

They had breathlessly made it down some foreign corridor when his communicator buzzed. Vicious ducked behind a corner, unintentionally slamming Julia into the adjacent wall. With his back against the wall, Vicious peered out from behind the corner as he answered his communicator.

"I'll be outside of the Club in two. Be ready." It was Spike, and judging by the sound of him, he wasn't faring well either.

Vicious glanced over at Julia – his eyes probing every inch of her. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she answered, still breathless. "How about you?"

He didn't answer; instead, he grabbed her by the arm and made way for the exit.

Spike was there as promised, and the two hoped into the truck.

"What the hell are you pulling?" were the first words out Vicious's mouth.

"A horse," Spike said casually. "Give me cover. These guys mean business." Just as the words left his mouth, a bullet careened into the passenger's side window. Vicious shoved Julia to the floor of the truck and provided Spike cover.

In a few quick turns, Spike had lost the lackeys and the three were sitting pretty. "Is Ang still breathing?"

"If he isn't, it's not by any fault but his own," Vicious said.

"How are you, Julia?"

Julia was still positioned on the floor hugging her legs to her chest when she heard Spike's question. "I've been better." Vicious lent her a hand and helped her up. "How are you two?"

"Breathing," Spike answered, eyes still focused to the road.

"So, why are we pulling a horse?" Vicious asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Only time will tell…"

----

"A horse?" Mao didn't sound displeased just confused. In fact, they were all confused.

"A very dead horse," Spike noted.

"You loaded a dead horse?" Vicious asked, unbelieving.

"He was alive when I stuck him in there."

Mao's lips sloped into a frown as he observed the beast. "Le Comte, hugh? He won two legs of the Martian Crown, but even then I don't understand why the Tigers would want to stake a claim on him…"

"One of the lackeys mentioned something about a mule… I don't suppose that they used _him_ as a drug mule," Spike said, somewhat disbelieving of his own sentiments.

Mao lowered his brow. "I'll ask the vet to perform an autopsy on him. If so, the drugs could have been the cause of death." Mao was about to turn away from the two when he stopped suddenly. "Is Ang still--"

"Presumably," Vicious answered curtly.

"And no one _else_ was involved in this heist?"

Spike and Vicious exchanged nervous glances before Spike responded. "No. No one else was involved."

"Good."


End file.
